


Insurrection Is Sometimes Resurrection

by Lynchy8



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Birthmarks, M/M, canon references galore, lots of feels, returning memories, warning for sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slight expansion on my <a href="http://lynchy8.tumblr.com/post/83017310820/id-like-to-see-a-reincarnation-au-where-enjolras">tumblr post</a> </p>
<p>"a reincarnation AU where Enjolras has eight birth marks across his chest. Grantaire only has one, right over his heart"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Bahorel remembered first.</i><br/><i>In the harsh light of the summer morning, Bahorel ran his fingers across the birthmark thoughtfully. It had never really occurred to him before, but it was the perfect echo of a bayonet wound.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The barricade boys start to remember their past and are drawn together once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Right, triggers; there's a lot of talk about people being sick. It's not graphic in any way, but everyone except R is sick at least once so I thought I should mention it.
> 
> Also there's a lot of discussion of canonical death but no one actually dies. Similarly, there's no violence per se but there are mentions of previous canonical violent acts.
> 
> If anyone would like anything specifically tagged please let me know.

Bahorel remembered first.

This good-natured mortal (who kept bad company) had decided to please his parents by attending university after he completed his final year at lycée; however, nothing had been said about passing his exams. He had obligingly received a passing grade in his first year at the Sorbonne, but now he was facing his second attempt at his second year. Part of the pattern pleased him; perhaps he could take his third year three times.

Now it was the late summer. Paris was hot and full of tourists moving like sheep between Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. The thrum of the city filtered up through the windows which had been left open in a vain effort to encourage a breeze. But none of that was of any interest to Bahorel at that moment.

Twenty-four hours ago Bahorel had been in bed with his boyfriend. Feuilly had been the best thing about moving up to Paris and was definitely the only thing keeping him from dropping out of University. The man wasn’t even a student; they had met in a bar towards the end of Bahorel’s first year and, even though Bahorel was a lazy bastard and Feuilly was the hardest working arsehole Bahorel had ever met, they had hit it right off. They had chatted, bought each other drinks and somehow Bahorel had found himself up against a wall with Feuilly’s tongue down his throat. 

They had been together for a year and it felt as natural as breathing. They were good together and the sex was fantastic. Feuilly seemed to particularly enjoy licking across Bahorel’s torso, up from his navel and swiping across the red birth mark just below his ribs. It was a two inch mark in blood red and Feuilly always gave it special attention before seizing one hard nipple between his teeth as his hands were occupied somewhat sinfully between Bahorel’s thighs. 

In the harsh light of the summer morning, Bahorel ran his fingers across the birthmark thoughtfully. It had never really occurred to him before, but it was the perfect echo of a bayonet wound.

Last night, after they had dragged themselves out of Bahorel’s bed, he and Feuilly had gone to a bar to get drunk. The new academic year didn’t start for another month and Feuilly worked long hours but Bahorel would rather spend his nights in bed with Feuilly than return to his parents’ home in the south. Feuilly was still griping at him for failing his second year and they had gotten into yet another argument. Bahorel rubbed at his head as he tried to remember what had led up to the all-important conversation in the first place. 

The music had been loud and the alcohol had been flowing, but nothing in Bahorel’s head would make any sense. It was the worst hangover he had ever experienced and he was fairly sure it had nothing to do with alcohol. All he could hear in his head was Feuilly’s final cutting remark.

_You’re not happy unless you’re having an argument, except when you’re starting a riot. But why stop there? Go the whole fucking hog and start a revolution why don’t you!_

The world had pitched sideways and Bahorel had barely made it into the toilet cubicle before sinking to his knees. He hadn’t been that sick since he was seventeen and he’d charmed his way into purchasing a litre of vodka. Naturally, they’d both been kicked out because the bar had zero tolerance for such behaviour. Feuilly, for all that he was angry with Bahorel, had carried him home to bed. All the way back he had clung to Feuilly, shivering and muttering about how sorry he was.

“I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I left you, I never meant to, I’m so sorry.”

Now awake and sober, with his head splitting in every kind of horrible direction, Bahorel had no idea why he had said that. He had just been so scared, no, horrified. He had felt so terribly guilty for dying and leaving Feuilly alone and never telling him how he felt.

But that was wrong for a start.

Now it was the morning after the night before. Bahorel rubbed his eyes as though that would somehow encourage his brain to start behaving. His bones were still chilled with the thought of having died, of having left Feuilly behind. But Feuilly was fine. He was _fine_. It had to have been a dream, or a hallucination. It could have been a bad pint messing with his head. He would argue for stress, except that failing exams tended to suggest the opposite of having worked too hard.

He spent a good twenty minutes in the shower, enjoying the sting of the water when it turned cold, but he didn’t feel any better. His head was full of things that didn’t belong. There was a girlfriend, for a start. He couldn’t remember her name, just the timbre of her laugh. Bahorel had never really looked at women but there she was, inside his memory, chuckling away with her eyes lowered and her head resting coquettishly to one side. It was beyond bizarre.

There were trips to the country that hadn’t been in his head yesterday; scents that took him back to a kitchen table that was familiar and alien. Strong-armed hugs from his mother who had most certainly never worn an apron with a cap, nor had they ever lived on a farm but he could feel the scratch against his skin from afternoons spent hiding in the hayloft.

Bahorel decided that he was losing his mind.

+

Jean Prouvaire was in love with the world. He had successfully negotiated the perilous and potentially damaging years at school and in a matter of weeks he would be taking his place at University. For years he had been dreaming of Paris, of the library at the Sorbonne, of the cobbled streets that he had never seen and yet already felt like home. In his soul he felt a sense of destiny; he would go to Paris and bond with his fellows in a haze of drink and drugs, flirt with the darkness and write tragic and beautiful poetry.

Every writer needed fellows. Byron had Keats, Hemingway was friends with James Joyce and Gertrude Stein while Ginsberg had Kerouac and Burroughs. Prouvaire was just a few drinking buddies away from his future and he couldn’t wait. Just twelve more sleeps and he would be on the train towards his future. Vive l’avenir! 

Fresh out of the shower, Prouvaire moved about his room, scrubbing his auburn hair with the towel. Once dry, it would curl at the temples but otherwise it fell sheer and fine down his back. It was far too hot to be bothering with hairdryers. No doubt he would look like a crow's nest in the morning but he could always stuff it into a bun or two; they had the added bonus of being good places to store spare pens.

As he moved to turn out the bedroom light, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His deep green eyes stared back out at him from the glass, sending a critical gaze across his gangly frame. As usual, he was drawn to the birth marks dotted across his chest. He felt nothing but affection for the seven brown and red marks, five of which ran almost in a straight line across his chest. They bore more than a passing resemblance to the Saptarishi constellation and he often joined the dots together with various different coloured inks. One day, he thought, drawing his lips up into a fond smile, he might actually settle on a colour to have tattooed permanently. 

Prouvaire went to sleep that night with the hope of the future in his heart.

When the dawn came it found the young writer being noisily sick, his small body wracked and heaving, lips stinging and eyes watering. He swore in a language he did not recognise; from the feel of it on his tongue it might be Greek. He didn’t have much time to ponder it further as another wave of nausea overtook him.

When his treacherous body finally gave its last sigh and he was finally able to sit back and breathe, his hot cheek resting against the cold marble of the bath, he let out a strange laugh. His mind was on fire. Jean Prouvaire, who had been waiting and wishing and feeling empty for the longest time, who had always known he was destined for great things, was now complete for the first time in his eighteen years.

His fellows, they were there in his memories. They shared drinks with him, toasted his writing, laughed at his easy blushes and they had recited verses together on their last night on earth, knowing that death courted them in the morning. Because of course he was an old soul! His feet had found their way to Paris and had loved and wept and lived and died with his brothers; as he sat on that bathroom floor, two different worlds colliding in his mind, Prouvaire could not help but laugh.

His fingers traced the constellation on his chest. The stars were written there in bullet holes and all at once his laughing gave way to tears. He had been alone at the end. He wondered what had become of his friends.

Now he had a new purpose. It wasn’t just his future in Paris that interested him; it was the past as well. Using his new memories (for what else could they be?) he threw himself into research. He tried to capture how he felt, all that he had heard and smelt and tasted at the barricade, the sight of the barricade. He read up all he could on the French Revolution, searching for clues and hints of anything that felt familiar or rang a bell.

After a week he had ascertained that it wasn’t the actual revolution, the big one in 1789 that everyone remembered. That had come as a bit of a disappointment, but he remembered growing up on the stories of the revolution, had been a child of the revolution, which helped narrow his field of research. After another few days on Google he came to the conclusion that it was either 1830 or 1832. He wrote everything down in his notebook, whilst not breathing a word to anyone else. This was his secret and he intended to guard it jealously.

By the time he reached the sixth arrondissement, Prouvaire was entirely comfortable in his new skin, the nineteenth century and the twenty-first coexisting peaceably side by side. He determined to introduce himself to his new friends as Jehan, a two hundred year old joke that only he would understand. 

Now that he had arrived in Paris, the streets beneath his feet unfamiliar for two entirely different reasons, Prouvaire was not exactly sure what to do next. So much of his life had been building up to this, but the last few weeks had seen events take a sudden and unexpected turn. His fellow freshers were nice enough, but the light in their eyes was young and hopeful and Prouvaire found he had very little in common with them. In short, he was disappointed.

+

“Aren’t we a little bit old to be crashing fresher parties?” Feuilly sighed, shouldering past two disgustingly happy and fresh-faced eighteen year olds in the hallway of some apartment Bahorel had dragged him to. 

Bahorel had been behaving strangely for most of the summer, ever since that weird flu that had struck on their night out. For a while he had been worried about his boyfriend. The man he knew was charming, aggressive and outgoing. For the past month he had barely left the house. Not that Feuilly was complaining, because there were worse ways to spend their downtime than in bed. But he wasn’t stupid; the sex was a distraction from whatever was going on inside his boyfriend’s head.

However maybe it was just a case of summer sickness. Freshers week was upon them, the new semester was just around the corner and Bahorel had called him out of the blue with plans to attend a house party.

Some ghastly music with far too much bass was spewing out of speakers and Feuilly could barely hear himself think. He reached out to grab Bahorel’s arm, to ask whose house it was anyway, or where they could get a drink. As Bahorel turned, a skinny kid bumped his elbow. 

“Sorry,” Bahorel muttered, turning to catch the kid so that he didn’t stumble. Feuilly caught the strange moment when their eyes met, both sets widening in recognition. The redhead, who was practically the same height as Bahorel, give or take an inch, let out what could only be described as a squeak.

“Bahorel! How on earth?!”

The two of them were suddenly hugging as though they hadn’t seen each other in a lifetime and Feuilly couldn’t help but notice how the young man dug his hands into the cotton of Bahorel’s shirt as though he never wanted to let go.

When they finally seemed to remember that there were other people in the room, Bahorel turned quickly, a strange glint in his eye, his hand still on the kid’s shoulder.

“Feuilly, this is Jean Prouvaire. He’s an old friend of mine.”

Feuilly suspected there was probably a bit more to that story, considering the silent conversation going on between Bahorel and the guy through a series of glances that weren’t exactly subtle. However, “old friends” appeared to be an acceptable explanation as Jean Prouvaire gave Feuilly a genuine smile and shook hands.

After that, Feuilly may as well have been invisible. He did a circuit of the room, leaving Bahorel to catch up with his Old Friend. Evidently there was a lot to catch up on, as the two barely paused to breathe as they talked. Feuilly left them to it, seeking out his own drink and attempting to find anyone else he knew.

When he got bored he wandered back to where Bahorel and Prouvaire were still sitting, both now with furrowed brows and sad eyes. Feuilly stood back from them for a moment, observing how the two didn’t quite line up properly. They seemed to simultaneously be familiar and unfamiliar; both sitting towards each other and relaxed, but not quite moving in sequence as friends do. It was a confusing image.

It was Prouvaire who spotted him first, smiling up at him and Feuilly couldn’t help but think how open the expression was. Maybe Bahorel and this kid weren’t being entirely honest about the nature of their so-called friendship, but Feuilly couldn’t help but like him.

“An old friend, huh?” Feuilly gave Bahorel an unimpressed look when they finally left the party. Feuilly wasn’t under any illusions; he knew he hadn’t been Bahorel’s first relationship any more than Bahorel had been his. They were allowed their exes like any other couple. He was irritated that Bahorel seemed to think Feuilly would be bothered by this. 

Having said that, the kid looked young and if he was an old flame from back home then their relationship must have been a little underage, certainly on Prouvaire’s side.

Feuilly looked up at Bahorel but the man merely shrugged. His shoulders were relaxed and there was a lightness about his expression that had been absent for the entire summer. 

“We were close, once. A long time ago,” Bahorel replied, a small smile on his face and Feuilly had to hold back from rolling his eyes. 

“It was nice to see him again.”

+

Bahorel thought he might burst. _He wasn’t alone_. Jehan was here; dear Jehan who was just the same. Well, as far as Bahorel could remember. Still dreamy and prone to easy blushes, with his ridiculously deep and rich voice and delightful laugh. Bahorel could have wept for his friend, for the manner of his death. His own had been so quick he barely had time to regret it. But his intrepid young friend had died a martyr’s death. Prouvaire, for his part, seemed to be delighted about it.

It made it so much easier having someone to talk to about the pressure cooker in his brain. He was just so relieved that he wasn’t actually going mad; it was _real_. He had died from the strike of a bayonet in the defence of freedom. Jehan had an absolute wealth of information on the subject, which Bahorel found to be astounding. He felt somewhat ashamed that he had so little to offer in return.

“But Feuilly does not remember?” Jehan had enquired once the man in question had moved away. Bahorel had shaken his head. Certainly Feuilly had shown no signs of having the memories of 19th century revolution mixing in his 21st century mind. Prouvaire had pouted, throwing a lock of hair away from his eyes somewhat petulantly before shrugging his shoulders.

“Maybe he’s not quite ready yet.”

It was still awkward, though. Feuilly was shooting him all sorts of questioning, amused and irritated looks but Bahorel couldn’t, just _couldn’t_ tell Feuilly the truth. For one thing, he was certain Feuilly wouldn’t believe him, and with good cause.

_Hello, this is my friend Jehan. We died together on a barricade – as did you – and now we’re all back from the dead, isn’t it wonderful?_

Feuilly would probably punch him.

+

Starting at the Sorbonne had just sort of happened to Laigle. He was the youngest of seven with six older sisters who had all gone off to university before him; one still in attendance while the other five had graduated and gone on to glittering careers. 

Laigle had gone into law on his father’s recommendation, as he had no other calling or talent to speak of. He expected that he would come to enjoy it eventually and, if not, well it was better than no career at all. Hopefully he would find his true calling at some point.

He had met Joly and Grantaire at the campus clinic. Laigle had decided to register for a doctor at the earliest opportunity, given that his medical records took up an entire filing cabinet at his doctor’s surgery back home. Joly had sort of adopted him in the waiting room as he had attempted to fill out his forms. The first two pens he tried didn’t work and the third had exploded all over him. 

Joly had almost dragged him into one of the bathrooms, even though they were total strangers and had done nothing more than nod to one another when Laigle had sat down. He had rolled up his sleeves, setting to the task of thoroughly washing all the ink off Laigle’s hands whilst explaining the importance of preventing any possibility of poisoning. 

The guy’s friend who had been sitting next to him in the waiting room had, in between snorts of laughter, yelled after them that it was pretty much impossible given that most biro inks were non-toxic. However, in the privacy of the bathroom, Laigle had thanked him most profusely.

“Non-toxic or not, knowing my luck you’d be absolutely right,” he muttered gratefully as the final remnants of the pen were washed away. 

Awkward introductions had then been done; Joly was going to be a doctor and Laigle thought maybe his luck was turning, because a doctor would be a very good friend to have indeed. Joly’s friend had offered Laigle a pencil on his return to the waiting room. Laigle couldn’t help but notice how the end was chewed, along with the fingernails of its owner. Joly introduced him as Grantaire. He was Joly's next-door neighbour at their halls of residence and insisted Laigle call him “R”.

“Grantaire is my father’s name,” he said darkly, picking at his fingers. There was nothing more to say about that.

The three of them had soon become firm friends. Laigle often found himself sleeping on either Joly or Grantaire’s floor rather than stumbling back to his own halls. Joly was sweet where R was sarcastic and Laigle was cheerful. Laigle was careless, Joly careful, while R didn’t care at all. All of them enjoyed sitting in the corner of any bar that took their fancy. R seemed to have made it his personal mission to go to every single establishment in Paris, reporting back on the ambience, the quality of the wine and the range of food as though he was a connoisseur working for a magazine.

He had fallen over Joly’s cane (which he used more often when the rain affected his misaligned knee joints) more than once; while R had a habit of seizing it and brandishing it like his fencing foil. This usually resulted in Laigle doubled up with laughter, tears running down his cheeks while Joly tried to make R put it down before he broke something or someone. He couldn’t remember ever having laughed so much in his life and was grateful that his rocky path had found him in Paris with such wonderful friends.

Which, of course, was when it all went wrong.

He woke up on Halloween feeling decidedly queasy. R, running a hand through his curls as he attempted to tame them before heading off to a lecture, had muttered that it was customary to feel sick _after_ the Halloween party, not before. There had been a kind twinkle in his eye when he said it, a vague hint of concern as he regarded Laigle with his head on one side. Joly had clucked, insisting that Laigle stick out his tongue for inspection. R had left them to it.

In the late afternoon, R had returned to find Joly rearranging the furniture in his room, setting his bed to face the south, while Laigle sat on the floor darning his coat.

“Surely you should just buy a new coat!” R exclaimed, leaning against Joly’s desk with his arms folded, watching Laigle in fascination. Laigle smiled up at him good-naturedly.

“I have not the pennies to waste on something so frivolous as a new coat,” he replied with good humour. “Besides, old coats are like old friends.”

It happened all at once; the uncomfortable feeling that had been sitting on him all day, suddenly caused his stomach to lurch violently. He dropped his darning and scrambled to the door, heading for the sink. Part of him felt extraordinarily guilty that he was being horribly sick in Joly’s sink of all places, especially when the guy in question had obviously spent the day in one of his more pernickety moods.

Soothing hands rubbed his back and he could hear Grantaire’s soft voice whispering gently in his ear. A thousand images flashed across his eyes; Joly with a cold, eating oysters, Grantaire with red eyes and a red waistcoat. Explosions, a procession, no - a funeral; he and Joly had watched a funeral procession. A barricade, a flag lit up by a lantern, Grantaire passed out asleep at a table. There were others, too, in his head. Other friends whose names popped up as though he had always known them.

Laigle staggered backward. 

“Easy, there, friend,” R murmured, running the tap to fetch his friend a glass of water. Joly was huddled back against the wall, pale and frozen in place.

“I’m sorry,” Laigle croaked, his throat burning and head spinning. At his words, Joly seemed to spring to life. He plucked Laigle from Grantaire’s arms.

“Hush. Let’s get you into bed, shall we?” He said brightly, deliberately averting his eyes from the mess in the sink. R was already rolling up his sleeves, apparently adept at dealing with such a situation.

“Take my bed,” Grantaire offered generously, calling over his shoulder. “I doubt I’ll have much use for it tonight. And if I should return I can bunk up with Joly.”

Laigle couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Joly’s splutters in response to such a statement as he was led out of the room. He was suddenly bone tired, his body rebelling against whatever was happening in his mind. Perhaps he was having a stroke? But he didn’t like to bother Joly with it just now, the guy looked worried enough as it was.

“Are you going to be sick again?” he enquired anxiously as he stripped Laigle out of his clothes. Laigle would have blushed if he had the energy to; this was not how he had thought his first time being peeled out of clothes by Joly would have gone. But then, perhaps he should have anticipated this being the real scenario, rather than anything involving gentle caresses and soft kisses.

“No,” he murmured in response, sinking into R’s bed, relishing the cool pillow against his aching head.

“They were wrong, you know,” he muttered, eyes closed and already half asleep. 

“Who were?” Joly enquired, voice somewhat far away.

“They were wrong about R. He _is_ a good fellow, and more than capable of lots of things. We should tell him.”

“Go to sleep,” Joly advised, before slipping out of the door.

+

Laigle stood before the mirror, running his hand through his hair nervously. It was late in the evening now. Joly and R had, in all likelihood, gone out to the Halloween party, leaving him to sleep off whatever illness had sprung upon him earlier. When he had woken up he had found a bucket and a glass of water next to the bed along with strict instructions in Joly’s sprawling handwriting that he was to call if he needed anything. The first thing he had done was have a wash, which was how he came to be standing in front of R’s slightly cracked mirror, staring at himself as though his reflection could solve all of life’s problems.

He had been bald, he distinctly remembered that fact. His friends had called him Bossuet after it was discovered that one of his more distinguished ancestors had been tonsured from the age of ten. It struck him as somewhat typical that he would have been known for being bald when it was no longer the case. How would his other friends recognise him?

Assuming his other friends were out there. Joly was here, after all; just the same as Laigle remembered although he showed no sign of the same condition. More to the point, he was not inclined to share this turn of events with the guy who was highly strung enough over maladies without having this thrust upon him as well.

His thoughts turned to Grantaire, his old and dear friend; the man seemed happier now than when they had last met. He still hunched a little and was prone to excessive soliloquies whether sober or otherwise. But his smile was easier and his laughter more genuine. Laigle couldn’t help but wonder what had become of him in the end. 

At the thought of the barricade he winced, returning to sit down on the end of the bed. Was it real? Maybe it was all some terrible hallucination, a symptom of a brain tumour perhaps. Or maybe that was Joly talking.

But he had died. His other friends had died too. Bahorel, the strongest of them all, had fallen first. Dear Prouvaire had been taken. Bossuet found his eyes filling with tears. But what of the others? What had become of Joly and Courfeyrac and the rest? He closed his eyes as all the images swam around in his mind. Before he fell asleep once more he determined not to tell anyone.

For four weeks he endured the strange memories that haunted him alone. 

+

It is said that every face that you dream of is someone you have met or walked past or glanced at during some point in your life.

Feuilly didn’t usually have time for such conjecture. He was an orphan and there had been little patience for philosophers where he had grown up. If he dreamed at all, it was usually forgotten by the time the kettle had boiled for his first coffee of the day. Reality was enough to be worried about, with bills and rent and a boyfriend who apparently wanted to make a career out of being a student, without worrying about his subconscious as well.

But when he woke in the night, sweating despite the November chill in the air, his mind filled with gunfire and roars, young voices raised in both cheer and rage and the _faces_ ; so many faces filled his mind. Even as he stumbled from his bed, barely making it to the bathroom before last night’s dinner made a sudden reappearance, his nostrils were overwhelmed with the stench of gun powder. 

A terrible sense of loss consumed him. His friends, his family, they had been injured and dying around him. Crouching and huddled inside the barricade by the flickering light of a torch alongside Courfeyrac – Courfeyrac. The word brought to mind a generous and warm fellow who was very particular about his honour. Courfeyrac who had taken great pleasure in insulting the cannon that echoed over their heads. 

His fingers tingled with powder from a powder-flask, his mind filled with knowledge that had very little use to his modern mind; the ability to make bullets, to wield an axe in order to destroy a stair case. And through all of this was the sense of betrayal and abandonment. For all their efforts, they were going to die.

Feuilly shook his head as though to remove these unwelcome intruders from his head. They did not belong there, but the movement only served to increase his headache.

As he staggered back to his bed, he reached out for his phone on the bedside table by his head. There was only one voice he wanted to hear right now, only one face he wanted to see; especially as his mind kept summoning that same face frozen as it fell, struck by the blade of a bayonet.

+

Of course Bahorel was asleep; it was five past three in the morning. He fumbled for his ringing phone with his eyes still closed, part of his brain assuming that it was his alarm going off for a lecture he had absolutely no intention of attending. Having blindly pressed a button to restore silence to his bedroom, a tinny voice filtered across the speaker.

“Bahorel?”

He knew then, in that moment, just from that one word, just from his boyfriend’s tone; Bahorel knew Feuilly remembered.

He kept Feuilly on the phone as he quickly pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt before racing out of his flat to his motorbike. In fifteen minutes he was pulling up outside Feuilly’s apartment and pressing the buzzer for admittance.

For a long while they just sat together in silence, Feuilly smoking, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly. Bahorel waited.

“This is fucked up,” Feuilly finally exhaled, grinding the cigarette butt into pieces against the bottom of the ashtray before lighting up another. Bahorel huffed.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” he admitted, a slight edge to the underlying laugh. “All these things in my head that didn’t belong. But then –” he cut off, pulling a slightly sheepish face. Feuilly inclined his head in acknowledgement. _But then they’d met Jehan_.

“Old friend, huh?” Feuilly echoed, turning to face Bahorel, grinning slightly. He saw Bahorel relax, his shoulders slump a little, returning Feuilly’s smile.

“A very old friend,” Bahorel agreed.

He had met up with Jehan a few times for coffee since their first encounter. Jehan had done most of the talking and Bahorel had been more than happy to listen. He seemed so comfortable in his skin, speaking freely of everything that had happened to them as if everyone went around with multiple lifetimes in their heads. Bahorel couldn’t tell whether Prouvaire’s archaic turn of phrase was down to the memories or Jehan’s natural exuberant eccentricity. 

“I’ll text him in the morning. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” Bahorel checked the time on his phone, wondering how insensitive it would be to suggest moving this conversation to the bedroom where there were pillows and a duvet. 

“Are there any… you know,” Feuilly inhaled before tapping the ash from his cigarette, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Others?”

“Not that I know about. Jehan hasn’t mentioned anyone either.” Feuilly nodded, not sure what answer he had expected. He ran over the other faces in his mind; a tall blonde, their Chief; Courfeyrac as their Centre and then the Guiding hand of Combeferre. He thought of the good humour shared by Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire. Feuilly wondered if they were out there somewhere, wondering the same about him. Groaning, he stubbed out the cigarette before rising to his feet.

“This is so fucked up.”

+

“What are you doing?”

Laigle eyed the mini chemistry lab set up that was currently cluttering the surface of Joly and Grantaire’s communal kitchen. Joly was looking very serious in his lab coat, lips pursed as he considered a row of test tubes in a rack on the table, each containing a different coloured liquid.

“Making Christmas cocktails,” Joly replied, taking a test tube of clear liquid and pouring it into the jug before noting something down. Laigle felt compelled to point out that it was still November and that December would not commence for another three days, but instead he simply smiled.

He supposed some people might call it unlucky, to be the only one of your friends who remembered them all from a previous life; but he counted himself fortunate to be able to appreciate the similarities and differences between then and now.

Joly was still in the habit of sticking out his tongue whenever he passed a mirror, although these days it was more to make a face before breaking into a broad grin rather than with any specific concern as to its colour. He had a particular aversion to rain, which had caused Grantaire to perfect an especially melodramatic impression of the Wicked Witch of the West for such occasions when they were out and about and unfortunate enough to be caught in a shower. At the sight of Grantaire writhing on the floor, shrieking about talented doctors destroying his beautiful wickedness, it was always Joly who laughed the hardest.

“Morning, chaps!” 

Laigle was drawn out of his thoughts by R’s cheerful greeting as he strolled into the kitchen wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt and boxer shorts. His bare feet slapped against the linoleum as he headed towards the fridge, rolling his shoulders, but was accosted by Joly before he could complete his mission.

“Here,” Joly thrust a beaker containing a bright green concoction into Grantaire’s hands. “Drink this.”

Grantaire blinked at the beaker in his hand, eyeing the contents with amusement.

“What’s in it?” he enquired, but Joly huffed impatiently in response.

“If I told you that it could bias the results and affect the outcome!” he retorted, as though Grantaire was being particularly difficult. R grinned broadly, shrugging.

“Right then. Bottoms up!” Grantaire toasted Joly before knocking the contents of the beaker back without further ado, smacking his lips with contentment and humming happily.

“Wow, Jolllly, that was really quite something. Call it a seven. No blindness, full use of limbs remain, slight tingling in the back of the throat.”

Joly scribbled it all down in his notebook.

“Right then,” Joly placed his notes back on the counter before heading towards the fridge. “Phase two.”

Laigle watched with interest as Joly disappeared into the fridge, emerging a moment later with a plateful of cheese. Before Laigle would enquire as to the possible relationship between cheese and chemistry kits and mystery festive cocktails, Grantaire’s voice rang out.

“Ooooh, is that Brie?” Grantaire’s eyes were lit up like Christmas trees but Joly nearly dropped the plate, going suddenly white.

+

_Parisian streets; a fine procession, a drizzle of rain on a June afternoon. Musichetta, with tiny feet, little hands, very literary, dimpled, with the eyes of a fortune-teller. How she had sulked with him – how he had shared her, and much more besides with Laigle. And Bossuet – where had that come from?_

“Bossuet,” he tried the word on his tongue and Laigle blanched.

“What did you call me?”

+

Grantaire grumbled with good humour, covering his concern as he set about cleaning the kitchen.

“I don’t know, you kids with your fancy cocktails and your empty stomachs and then you’re surprised when it all goes to hell and it’s not even three o’clock in the afternoon yet, I mean really!” 

Laigle let him grumble as he took care of a shaking Joly, who had done exactly the same as he had several weeks previously, dashing for the nearest sink as his body rebelled against the flood of images and senses overloading his system. He could tell from the hunch of R’s shoulders and the slight tremble to his tone that he was more worried than annoyed to be cleaning up after Joly.

“I mean, the Romans used to take it as a matter of course, even designing their vomitoria for use in between courses of great feasts; except, of course, that isn’t true. It is complete nonsense, the Romans never had a room for such activities. The vomitorium is how everyone got out of the amphitheatre so damn quickly after a particularly awful rendition of The Braggart Warrior. But still, my point is that if Romans were to have a room for purging it would only be used after the consumption of a significantly higher portion of food than our dear Joly has partaken in today,” he rounded on the pair, Joly having been shuffled to the nearest kitchen chair while Laigle encouraged him to drink a glass of water.

Joly was completely spaced-out, his eyes staring, hands wrapped round the glass as though taking comfort in the slight chill beneath his fingers.

“Grantaire, I’m going to take Joly to bed,” Laigle interrupted Grantaire’s monologue, helping his unfortunate friend to his feet. 

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s only fair,” Grantaire pursed his lips, brow crinkled with apprehension. “I mean, it’s not like you guys have never looked out for me.”

Joly suddenly broke away from Laigle’s side, marching over to Grantaire and pulling the surprised man into a tight hug.

“We will always look out for you, R, you ridiculous human,” he muttered fiercely into Grantaire’s neck. It took a moment for Grantaire to recover and return the hug, his cheeks flushed slightly pink, before he patted Joly’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, I think the experimental cocktails have gone to your brain. Let Laigle take you to bed,” he stepped back, voice slightly gruff as he turned to resume cleaning the sink. 

With the door firmly closed behind them, Laigle turned to Joly who was now perched stiffly on the edge of the bed.

“Grantaire, he doesn’t…” Joly trailed off, wide eyes looking up at Laigle as though seeking confirmation that this was all real. Laigle shook his head in response, walking over to sit next to his friend.

“No.”

“But you do?” There was a strange burning in his eyes. He reached up, tentatively running cautious fingers through Laigle’s hair.

“You look different with hair,” Joly murmured.

“Yes, well,” Laigle cleared his throat. “I’m not twenty-five yet.”

Joly hiccoughed, before wrapping his arms tightly round his friend. Laigle could feel that he was shaking.

“This isn’t real, is it?” Joly asserted, his voice trembling. “It is some hallucination that plagues me. I have been working too hard. And maybe adding orange to that last concoction was an errant move…”

“Joly,” Laigle tried to keep his voice low and calm, even as Joly’s rose in fear. He could well remember how disorientating it had all been at first. “It’s fine. I remember too, it _is_ real.” 

He pulled back enough to look into Joly’s eyes. They were big and green and beautiful and Laigle found himself holding his breath. He was sure he was about to say something comforting, but he suddenly realised how close he was to Joly. Joly’s hands were clinging tightly to his arms and they were pressed together in a form of embrace. 

“Musichetta,” Joly almost whispered, not taking his eyes from Laigle, who could only shake his head sadly. 

“I haven’t seen her. I don’t know what happened to her.” He squeezed Joly’s arms in comfort, trying to reassure him that the girl they had both been so fond of had surely been safe.

Joly dropped his eyes briefly, letting out a little sigh before his eyes closed, a wrinkle creasing his brow. Laigle couldn’t help but stare at the thick black lashes resting on Joly’s freckled cheek. All he wanted to do was kiss that frown away, for their lips to meet as they had done a lifetime ago; he had wanted that even before all this mess had begun, but now the tug in his chest had only increased.

When Joly opened his eyes, he smiled up at Laigle and just for a moment they seemed to pull together, everything slotting into place. But then Joly jerked back.

“What am I thinking!” he gasped, wide-eyed, and Laigle felt his heart shattering onto the floor. Joly pulled out of his grasp, heading for the door before spinning on his heel.

“At least let me brush my teeth!”

When he returned, kicking the door shut behind him and almost killing Laigle when he dived onto the bed, Joly’s breath was minty fresh.

As they curled up together on Joly’s bed, trying to find some middle ground between their shared 19th century past and their 21st century future, Laigle was sure right then that he was the luckiest man in the world.

+

Joly insisted on taking Bossuet out on a date. It was a proper date in that Joly insisted on arranging a time and a place to meet, even though Laigle was pretty much a permanent fixture in their halls now. They chose a little coffee shop that Grantaire had recommended. He seemed pleased at the change in dynamic between his friends.

“Well, finally!” he grumbled. “I thought dear old Laigle here was never going to breathe a word about his entirely non-subtle crush on a certain physician of our acquaintance.” He had then dodged a pillow that Laigle had thrown in retaliation; he even had the good humour not to complain too loudly when said pillow knocked his venus flytrap from its perch on the windowsill onto the floor.

The coffee shop was small with creaky wooden floorboards and an intimate atmosphere. Laigle quipped about ordering a plate of oysters, making Joly chuckle. As they sat at the table, grinning shyly at each other, Joly suddenly spotted a familiar auburn head seated beside the fireplace. Jean Prouvaire was bent over some books, sucking on the end of his pen, apparently lost in contemplation. Joly gave Laigle’s hand a squeeze, nodding over to where the boy sat.

“What should we do?” Laigle asked, wide-eyed. “We can’t very well go barging over there. If he doesn’t remember he’ll think we’re mad.” Joly considered for a moment, head on one side.

“We could always go over there and then pretend we mistook him for someone else,” Joly decided. “That happens all the time.”

Just at that moment, as though he sensed eyes upon him, Jean Prouvaire looked up, looked right at them and then smiled broadly.

“He knows,” Joly said with confidence, rising to his feet.

“Jehan?” he said, allowing a small inflection to colour his tone, suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous. He need not have worried. Prouvaire bounced to his feet, seizing Joly in a surprisingly fierce hug.

“Ah, Joly!” He cried. “Still flying on your four L’s, I hope!” He turned to give Laigle an equally warm greeting and soon all three of them were sitting and chatting as though no time had passed at all.

“Bahorel and Feuilly will be here shortly,” Jehan mentioned casually, pouring himself another cup of peppermint tea from the pot.

“Well fuck me sideways!”

Everyone looked up to see the aforementioned pair shuffling in from the freezing rain outside, droplets glinting as they clung to Bahorel’s undercut. Laigle’s cheeks ached with smiling, pure joy filling him up as he enjoyed another round of hugs and greetings. They had to pull up another table to make room as they eagerly began to swap stories about their modern lives.

Joly and Laigle were more than happy to bring news of Grantaire, even if their friend still did not remember. As they sat among the others, Laigle felt a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, Grantaire would be swapping stories with them soon enough. When it had been just him, he hadn’t dare hope for such a thing. Now, to be amongst his old friends who had all been through the same thing, he felt much more positive.

“But what of Enjolras? Or Courfeyrac, or Combeferre?” Joly spoke up, looking round hopefully. Eyes fell to Bahorel who held up his hands.

“Assuming Enjolras or Courfeyrac still have a mind for the law, they are certainly not in any of my classes.” Eyes then turned to Laigle who shrugged.

“Not that I have noticed, but then our lecture theatres are very big. Although I think I would have noticed if Enjolras had been in my seminars.” 

Everyone chuckled, each trying to imagine their friend from before as a student now. Surely they must be out there somewhere! If they were all here, then surely their Chief was here too.

“We’ll find them,” Bahorel said gruffly, suddenly raising his coffee mug. Feuilly groaned, unable to keep the grin off his face as he elbowed his boyfriend before raising his cup in a similar fashion. Jehan followed suit just as Laigle and Joly raised theirs, all of them clinking together in a silent promise.

+

When Joly and Laigle got home, having swapped numbers and promises to get together soon, as well as swearing to keep everyone posted on Grantaire, they were accosted by their smirking flatmate.

“How was the date?” he asked, voice all lightness and innocence as he headed towards the kitchen, presumably for food or coffee or some other liquid refreshment.

Joly and Laigle just looked at each other before bursting out laughing. Grantaire shrugged in bemusement.

“That good, huh?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The same tags as before apply - there's mentions of violence and death but none of it is graphic and the deaths are canonical and are in the past.

Enjolras was shivering outside the library, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he waited for his friends. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were like the perfect equation; where the former was almost terminally late, the latter balanced it out beautifully by being chronically early. This meant that when they travelled together their time of arrival was easy to predict.

None of which explained why Enjolras had been standing at their appointed meeting place for - he checked his watch for the third time - fifteen minutes now.

Courfeyrac had been Enjolras's first real friend. It hadn't quite been their first day at collège because Enjolras's memory of his first day consisted of long corridors, the unfamiliar smell of floor polish and getting lost in crowds of people all of whom appeared to be at least two feet taller than him. But certainly, at some point during that first week, Courfeyrac had approached him, sticking out his hand and announcing that they were now friends.

Relating the story to Combeferre a few years later, Courfeyrac had said that Enjolras had been impossible to resist; he had such a serious look on his face, especially so for an eleven year old, and all Courf wanted Enjolras to do was smile; he had made it his personal mission. Combeferre had grinned, shooting a knowing look to Enjolras who was attempting to look unimpressed (and failing miserably) asking how long it took for Courfeyrac to succeed. Courfeyrac had laughed.

"Immediately. He smiled at me right away,” Courfeyrac shot a knowing look over to where Enjolras was now blushing, “and it was like the sun coming out."

Courfeyrac had also been Enjolras's first kiss, when they were fourteen and Enjolras was terrified because he was haunted by the fact that he might like boys but he wasn't sure that he liked anyone and the world was suddenly a huge terrifying place. He had whispered his fears in the dark one night, wrapped up in a sleeping bag on Courfeyrac’s bedroom floor, his stomach doing somersaults in anticipation of his best friend’s reaction. 

Courfeyrac had crawled out of bed, joining Enjolras on the floor and seeking out his hand in the dark. He told him it was ok and that, if Enjolras wanted to, they could always find out together. It had been awkward because Enjolras had absolutely no idea what to do, where to put his hands, was he doing it right? Should he move? But there had been a warmth and a connection; a soft scent of belonging and home and Enjolras was glad that his first had been Courfeyrac.

He suspected that Courfeyrac had also been Combeferre's first kiss, but he wasn't about to ask because Combeferre had a particular look of disappointment that he reserved for those moments that Enjolras, intelligent as he was, seemed to lose all sense of reason and blurt out questions or statements that were just the wrong side of appropriate.

Combeferre had completed their little friendship group when they were fifteen in the first year of lycée. Once more, Courfeyrac had bounced up to the new boy, announcing his intentions of befriending him and the rest had been history; they had been a tight and efficient unit ever since.

Enjolras's phone chimed in his pocket.

_From Ferre: Courf is sick. Rain check on study group._

Enjolras sighed, a slightly unkind part of his mind wondering whether Courfeyrac was really sick or whether it was an excuse, a thought he swiftly dismissed. He was still coming to grips with the change in dynamic of their relationship. It hadn't exactly been a secret, the fact that Combeferre went home with Courfeyrac on their first night at the Sorbonne. The pair of them had been making sad eyes at each other for most of the summer and Enjolras had been tired of telling them to talk to one other.

But now that it had actually happened, now that they were officially together and happy, Enjolras occasionally now found himself a bit of a spare part.

But if Combeferre said Courf was sick, then Enjolras would take him at his word. He sent back a text wishing Courf a speedy recovery, before slipping inside the welcoming warmth of the library.

Enjolras spent the better part of ninety minutes in the library researching his subject thoroughly on one of the computers before dumping his bag and coat by a desk and going in search of the texts that would help him with his essay, as well as a few others he thought might come in useful. Naturally, none of the texts were stored anywhere near each other and he found himself darting between the shelves, finding a text and forming a pile of the desk before going off in search of another.

After locating his final book, he returned to the desk, checking his watch in order to work out which bus he was likely to catch back to the halls, only to find his desk empty and completely devoid of the books he had so carefully procured and placed there only moments before. He stared at the space rather stupidly, as though the surface may offer some clue as to the fate of his recently departed texts. 

“Excuse me,” he somehow managed to get his voice to work, addressing a guy scribbling notes on the desk opposite him. The guy looked up, face quizzical.

“Did you see who took my books?”

The guy stared at him for a moment before his gaze flickered to the empty spot and then, jerking his head to the side, indicated a guy standing a few feet away, his back to Enjolras as he stared at the bookshelves before him. There was the culprit. 

Enjolras felt the rising anger in his throat, his vision clouding vaguely red. What the hell was this guy playing at?! Without another word, Enjolras strode over to where the man was calmly running his fingers along the spines of the books.

“Can I ask, what on earth possessed you to take my books?” Enjolras had drawn himself up to his full height, head up, shoulders back and eyes burning.

It was only once the guy turned around that Enjolras realised he was wearing a library staff t-shirt. The name badge on the front, containing only the letter R, confirmed the obvious; the man had taken his books not to mess with Enjolras, but to re-shelve them; because it was his job. Enjolras felt his stomach drop.

“Easy, there, Princess,” the guy held up his hands defensively, a grin on his face, his brown eyes sparkling slightly and Enjolras felt an unfamiliar swooping sensation as he attempted to remember how to breathe. 

“My books,” he spluttered, his voice and his brain, both of which were usually so reliable somehow failing him at the worst possible time. He must have looked like such a fool.

“Sorry, I figured some lazy sod had just left them lying around. That happens quite a lot. But don’t panic just yet, your highness, I’ll have them back in a jiffy.”

Enjolras really, really wanted the guy to stop with the nicknames. But before he could register his displeasure, much less enquire just how the guy thought he would retrieve the books when there had easily been twelve in the pile from all round the Politics floor, the guy was gone. Enjolras had very little choice but to stand there, feeling rather awkward, waiting for him to return. Every so often he caught a glimpse of him shooting between the shelves, the pile in his arms getting steadily larger.

Eventually “R” reappeared with an easy grin on his face. He jerked his head over towards the empty desk by Enjolras’s bag where he set the pile down with a thump.

“There we are, your worshipfulness,” Enjolras was torn between shuddering at the horrendous construction of that word and the sheer relief at getting all his books back so quickly. “I think you’ll find they’re all there. Plus I picked up this one.” R, tapped the book on top with his finger. “It’s not on your list but it’ll be useful to your essay. I assume it’s the one on Democratic Political Systems?”

“Are you a Politics student?” Enjolras looked up at R, trying to see if he recognised him at all. Instead he was treated to that grin again.

“Nope, Art,” R flashed his smile again. “But one of my mates is a Politics student.” R shrugged nonchalantly, an easy and fluid motion and Enjolras couldn’t help but look at the way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt.

“Thanks for the tip,” Enjolras replied, taking a deep breath and dragging his eyes back up to R’s face. 

“You’re welcome, Princess.”

“I am _not_ a Princess,” Enjolras gritted his teeth, trying to hold on to the last remaining shreds of gratitude, the rest of his spine bristling with annoyance.

“Then don’t act like one,” R threw back, turning presumably to continue with his job. “And next time you want to take out half the library either carry the books with you or have a buddy watch over them to stop the thieving librarians from doing their job.”

+

It was dark and bitterly cold by the time Enjolras stepped out of the library, gripping his phone tight to his ear as he rang Combeferre to check on how Courfeyrac was doing. From Combeferre’s deliberately calm tone, Enjolras could tell his friend was worried and he started to feel rather guilty for his earlier suspicions.

“He’s not great,” Ferre sighed, “his temperature is high, he’s sweating buckets and he’s been sick a few times.” Enjolras made a face; it sounded awful. “It could be norovirus; I don’t think it’s food poisoning as he hasn’t eaten anything that could produce this sort of reaction. I’m fine, at least for now.” He added the last part somewhat darkly and Enjolras’s sympathy increased.

After a few more words of reassurance, Enjolras left Combeferre to it, wishing Courfeyrac well and telling Ferre to let him know if there was anything he could do.

Combeferre was really rather worried about his boyfriend. He didn’t tell Enjolras the full details of whatever virus it was currently coursing through Courfeyrac’s system; the only thing for sure was that he was not looking forward to going through it himself, as he inevitably would. As Enjolras hung up, Courfeyrac groaned, eyes fluttering open. He looked awful.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac croaked, eyes squeezing shut briefly with effort.

“It’s ok, I’ve just spoken to him. He’s not angry about the study group.” Combeferre knew it was a stupid thing to try to reassure Courfeyrac about, but he also knew that Courf worried about that sort of thing; he hated letting his friends down, especially Enjolras.

“He probably got more work done without us there anyway.” Combeferre tried for a bright and reassuring smile but his heart wasn’t in it; not with the way Courfeyrac was looking at him with confused and slightly frightened eyes.

“He’s alive? He survived?” There was a note of desperation in Courfeyrac’s tone that nearly broke Combeferre’s heart, even if he didn’t fully understand the question.

“Courfeyrac,” he said gently, sitting down on the side of the bed and clasping his boyfriend’s hand. It was clammy beneath his touch and Courfeyrac’s fingers dug into his hand, holding onto Combeferre so tight as though fearing he might disappear. “Enjolras is fine. We’re all fine.”

But far from comforting Courfeyrac, the patient dropped his head back onto the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head.

+

Courfeyrac had been on his way back from his lecture, already conscious that he didn’t really have enough time to pop home first but that if he didn’t then he wouldn’t be able to pick up his notes which would render their study rendezvous somewhat pointless.

The harsh December breeze suddenly picked up its pace, as though sensing Courfeyrac was already late, fighting against him as though to make him even later. Courfeyrac cursed as a particularly violent gust seized his hat, something that had happened plenty of times before as the hat was old and the wool stitches had worn loose over the years. But today it was different. Today, as Courfeyrac felt his hat being forcibly removed from his head, he stumbled in his tracks as his mind took him back to a memory that hadn’t been his that morning.

_“What have you done with your hat?”_

Courfeyrac’s stomach lurched violently and he fell to his knees as a bald-headed cheerful fellow asked him the question from the distant past. A word filtered into his consciousness; Bossuet, and with it the memories of attending balls and drinking in cafés; the memory of the same man calling for him from a window while he ran through the streets, sword stick in hand. Courfeyrac was vaguely aware of people stepping round him, their sounds of displeasure and disgruntled mutterings about students and how it was a disgrace to be so drunk so early in the day. 

There was a loud roaring noise in his ears and his lungs didn’t seem to want to fill properly. He could see Enjolras standing on top of a barricade, his face as serious as their first encounter as boys. Combeferre with his two pistols and a small boy, a gamin, singing cheerfully as bullets whizzed past him in the street.

“Can I help you? Can I call someone?”

That voice was outside his head. A person, some Samaritan come to his aid rather than stepping over him in disapproval. Somehow Courfeyrac managed to wrestle his phone out of his pocket; it felt unfamiliar in his fingers. He managed to convey that the kind stranger should call Combeferre and he could hear softly spoken words as the address was given. Courfeyrac sighed, leaning against a wall, the bricks cool beneath his touch. He was still nauseous and dizzy but relieved to know that help was on its way.

Around him, Paris swam in and out of focus. It was familiar and alien to him; streets which he had once known like the back of his hand were now filled with strange lights and sounds, the gas lamps replaced with modern electricity. The streets were too wide and he had to really think about the name of the strange metal creatures whizzing past him on the road.

“Courfeyrac!”

He sighed with relief. Combeferre had arrived.

+

“We were there, we were all there,” Courfeyrac moaned, opening his eyes again, trying to make Combeferre understand. “And there was so much noise, I can remember the noise, Ferre,” Courfeyrac reached up to rub at the side of his neck, fingers tracing the small round birthmark there.

“Where were we?” Combeferre asked, his tone calm and his eyes serious and Courfeyrac loved him dearly at that moment.

“The barricade. Don’t you remember the barricade?”

In his mind’s eye, Courfeyrac thought of Combeferre, still looking smart and beautiful in the middle of so much chaos and destruction. With his sleeves rolled up, he had pressed hands with Prouvaire while Enjolras spoke to them all about the seriousness of their predicament.

Jean Prouvaire, who had scribbled verses and cultivated pot plants and always seemed to have a blush painted on his cheek. Sweet Prouvaire whose clear, deep voice had rendered them all silent and horrified as he shouted his last. Courfeyrac couldn’t stop the tears, crying for a man whom he couldn’t remember having mourned before but was certainly mourning now.

Lying down in comfortable sheets, Combeferre’s steady presence grounding him in the presence, it was easier to let the images and feelings wash over him. The nausea slowly subsided and his mind grew quieter. He was Courfeyrac; he was a Politics student at the Sorbonne in Paris. Combeferre, his boyfriend, was holding his hand and everything else could wait.

Other faces fluttered before his mind’s eye. They were his friends, but not from this life time. What did that even mean? It all felt so real, especially the biting sensation at his throat, his fingers often straying up to trace the mark, to feel the echo of the bullet wound which was no longer there.

Combeferre and Enjolras, both his dearest friends, had been fighting hard last he had seen. Courfeyrac had to remind himself that Combeferre was still holding his hand and, so far, showed no sign of having the same images, feelings… memories… he showed no sign of recognising anything that Courfeyrac was talking about. He had just spoken to Enjolras on the phone. Logically whatever it was going on inside his mind could not be real. All the same, Courfeyrac couldn’t get the image of Enjolras standing on top of a barricade, shirt bloody and torn, from his mind’s eye.

Courfeyrac was exhausted. He needed to sleep, to let his mind process whatever breakdown he was clearly suffering. He barely stirred as Combeferre rested the back of his hand against Courfeyrac’s aching forehead, testing his temperature. 

“It’s so obvious now,” he muttered distractedly, stifling a yawn as his eyes slid closed. He hadn’t spoken for some minutes and Combeferre had honestly thought Courfeyrac had finally gone to sleep.

“What is?” he asked, wondering if perhaps this was a symptom of delirium, the next stage of the virus. Whatever Courfeyrac said in this state, Combeferre would never think to hold against him, but he was curious to know what Courfeyrac was thinking. Courfeyrac just shook his head. 

“He was in love with Enjolras.”

+

When Courfeyrac woke the following day, he felt as though he had spent the night before drinking half the bars in Paris dry which he thought was rather unfair, to earn such a hangover without having consumed a drop. His whole head ached as though it was too full, which he supposed wasn’t too far from the truth. 

“How are you feeling?” Combeferre had blatantly been sat up all night by his side. His hair was askew, and not in that loveable bedhead sort of way that Courfeyrac had come to adore ever since he had earned the honour of waking up next to it. One cheek was smudged red where it had been resting on his palm and both eyes were purple with fatigue.

Courfeyrac considered the question, running a hand through his own wild locks, keenly aware of how they stuck together; he must be a less-than-attractive sight and his heart swelled a little for the care Combeferre had taken with him. 

“Better,” he exhaled, because it was true. The room wasn’t spinning and he didn’t feel as though he might drown in the strange thoughts in his head. He looked at Combeferre who was clearly expecting more. He had that look on his face which suggested he was bursting to ask a thousand questions, but that he was holding back in order to give Courfeyrac some space.

“What do you remember?” he asked at last. Courfeyrac felt hope blossom in his soul; did Combeferre remember to?

“Everything!” he breathed, a grin breaking across his face. “Oh my gosh, Combeferre, I thought I was going crazy, but if you’re the same…”

Combeferre held his hand up, closing his eyes and shaking his head gently.

“I meant, what do you remember from yesterday,” he clarified. He watched as Courfeyrac’s face fell and he seemed to shrink back in the bed away from him.

Of course that was what Combeferre had meant. Good grief, Courfeyrac had really lost his mind! He was thoroughly and completely cracked. Whatever had happened to him yesterday was either a hallucination brought on by illness or a spiked drink, or it was symptomatic of a wider psychiatric issue. Either way, Courfeyrac wished he had kept his mouth shut.

“Although,” Combeferre reached forward, covering Courfeyrac’s hand with his own. “I am curious to know what you’re referring to. You say you remember something? You were talking about barricades…” he looked at Courfeyrac gently, leaving his sentence open and welcoming for Courfeyrac to continue should he so wish. Courfeyrac took a deep breath. As much as he felt perhaps he shouldn’t talk about it, maybe it would help. Plus, this was Combeferre. He loved and trusted this man completely.

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he began, rubbing absently at his neck. Combeferre tracked the movement but made no comment. Instead he reached over to his desk to grab his notebook and a pen.

“I believe that what you are going through is real,” Combeferre replied gently, turning to a clean page and looking up with a kind smile on his face. “I believe that you wouldn’t maliciously make something like this up for whatever reason.” 

So Courfeyrac told him everything. 

Well, nearly everything. It was hard to explain really, especially as what first sprang to mind was images and feelings rather than anything he could expressly articulate into a form of narrative. The scent of the candles, of wine and food and a room packed with young men all drinking and laughing and enjoying each other’s company. There didn’t seem much point on lingering on the vaguer “memories” sitting in the back of his mind which were more momentary glimpses than anything else and very difficult to translate. There was the stifling heat of the south where he had lived as a boy; a strict tutor, two loving parents and any number of siblings whose names Courfeyrac felt bad about not knowing.

It was similar to trying to remember things that he knew had happened five years ago, but the particulars were somewhat foggy. He knew he had been a student, could picture his fellow students as clearly as the ones with which he currently shared a tutor group. He remembered the cobbles beneath his feet, the winding streets of Paris and its peculiar smells. He remembered nights at various cafés, various women and some men with whom he had trifled, formed trysts with and had otherwise enjoyed.

He smiled as he spoke of Marius, a little lost soul that Bossuet had somehow found in the Place Saint-Michel. The boy had stayed in his rooms, had refused to borrow a sous despite his very immediate and obvious penury. He’d had very odd ideas about Napoleon which made Courfeyrac smile, although he got the feeling Combeferre didn’t quite understand the joke. 

“Billiards,” he said, words tumbling out of his mouth with no apparent order. “I liked to play billiards. I was quite good at it. I wonder if there are any billiard tables left in Paris for me to try? Grantaire would know…” Courfeyrac stopped talking, his stomach dropping and Combeferre put down his pen, looking up with concern.

Courfeyrac had been rattling along for about ten minutes, describing buildings and scenery but this was the first time he had actual spoken about a person who wasn’t Enjolras or Combeferre.

“Grantaire?” Combeferre prompted, keeping his voice neutral. Courfeyrac sighed, reaching out to take a sip from the glass of water by his bed.

“Grantaire knew everything about everywhere in Paris. He found the Corinthe, you know,” he continued, his voice slightly uncertain. It felt strange to be talking like this. Enjolras and Combeferre were real; one of them was sitting right in this room. This “Grantaire” felt real, felt the same when Courfeyrac spoke of him as it did when he spoke about Enjolras or Combeferre. So, Grantaire must have been real.

“The Corinthe?” Combeferre was still writing things down and Courfeyrac wondered why. Was Combeferre humouring him or merely recording evidence for when the men with white coats turned up?

“The Corinthe was a bar in Paris,” Courfeyrac could see it clearly, the tumbledown building that they had adopted, despite the terrible food. _Régale si tu peux et mange si tu l’oses._

Combeferre nodded, still writing, the significance of the building completely lost upon him. Courfeyrac felt his stomach clench and the blood run cold in his veins. 

“It was where,” he ran his tongue along his lower lip, trying to force his voice to work. But all he could hear was Bossuet’s cheerful call from that fucking window. 

Combeferre was absolutely fascinated. He wrote notes in his own shorthand and forced himself to keep questions to a minimum, only prompting when Courfeyrac appeared to be struggling with words. Of course, he was concerned that Courfeyrac had completely lost his marbles, but something told him this wasn’t the case. It was far too lucid for delirious ramblings; besides, Courfeyrac’s temperature had come right down. It was clear that Courfeyrac was being absolutely serious and was feeling every moment right in his heart.

Courfeyrac looked up and Combeferre could see that his eyes were glassy.

“You had this gun that you’d plucked from some poor National Guardsman,” Courfeyrac tried to grin but there was a strange sadness behind it. “Not to mention two pistols in your belt. You really meant business!”

Combeferre nodded, smiling slightly before dropping his gaze to his notes. He already had big plans for a spreadsheet to help with whatever this was. If this was real, if Courfeyrac was really remembering suppressed memories of a past life, then maybe there was a clue here somewhere to help. Combeferre was a practical and logical person, unwilling to dismiss something as impossible just because it was highly unlikely. It was clear that Courfeyrac was not making this up, that he was genuinely experiencing these symptoms and “memories” for want of a better word for them.

He listened to Courfeyrac talking and determined that, even if he didn’t necessarily understand, he could at least be there for his boyfriend while they tried to work their way through this together.

+

Courfeyrac was up and about before the end of the day. After a shower and changing the bed sheets, he tried to forget about the whole thing. He knew Combeferre was trying to help but all the gentles glances were beginning to grate on him. He wondered if it would be easier if Combeferre had called him a liar or had tried to insist that it was all part of the virus he had clearly been suffering from.

He absolutely insisted that Combeferre keep their conversation about barricades and revolutionaries between themselves; he wasn’t ready for Enjolras’s reaction. He and Enjolras were close and he loved the man dearly, but he knew Enjolras was nowhere near as curious and accepting of the wider world and all its mysteries as Combeferre. Whilst he didn’t believe for a second that his oldest friend would be angry or react negatively he just didn’t want to deal with that. There was always the possibility that Enjolras would ask even more questions than Combeferre and Courfeyrac was in no mood to deal with that.

Still, it was somehow easier now to live with these two strange worlds inside his head. The differences between the Paris in his head and the Paris in front of his eyes didn’t leave him dizzy anymore and he wasn’t so shocked when he turned to go down streets that weren’t there.

Every so often, Combeferre would give him a look which usually meant he’d used a particularly archaic turn of phrase in conversation, but otherwise he felt like he was dealing with the whole thing rather well, all things considered.

He fell into the habit of rubbing his neck or his chest, especially when he was tired or stressed. Before the resurfacing of his memories, he had thought the mark on his throat bore a resemblance to the mark of a lover. Now he knew it was the kiss of a bullet. His chest had no mark, only the echo of a memory, a blow delivered but not fatal. In his mind there loomed a man with a bayonet; in his ears he heard cries and there was a painful knowledge lodged in his soul that Bahorel, who had stood beside him so full of life in one moment, had been stuck dead at his feet the next.

His eye was also drawn to the three marks on Combeferre’s chest. About one-and-a-half inches long, three of them at such a strange angle, as though Combeferre had been twisting towards the sky. He wondered if Combeferre would ever remember. 

Christmas came and went. Enjolras and Combeferre went home to their families while Courfeyrac remained, his family making the trip to Paris to see him instead. Ordinarily he would have been desolate to be separated from Combeferre or Enjolras, especially over what was arguably his favourite time of year. But as he hugged and waved them goodbye for the Christmas break he felt a sense of relief. It would be good to have some time to himself.

Not that he wasn’t reminded on a daily basis that he wasn’t normal, that his life had changed completely. Silly things started to hurt, like the trip to the Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie with his little nieces and nephews. It was supposed to be innocent enough, giving his sister and her husband a break by taking the kids off their hands for a couple of hours. But as he walked around, the nineteenth century version of himself lamented at how much Combeferre had missed out on, how much they had all missed out on.

As he stood before the _Argonaute_ he thought about how excited Combeferre would have been about submarines, but not just submarines; trains, cars, hot air balloons. The cinematograph had its own exhibition right here in the museum. As he stared mournfully at the exhibits he realised he was being ridiculous. Combeferre was alive and fully appreciating the modern diesel engine.

+

Everything changed two days after Combeferre came back to Paris from the Christmas break. Courfeyrac woke to the sound of his boyfriend being horribly sick in his sink. As he scrabbled around to pull on his boxers and switch on a light, he heard Combeferre let out a shuddering breath.

“I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a sneaking suspicion this may stumble on for more than three chapters. Originally this chapter was going to deal with Courfeyrac, Combeferre and their reunion with Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly and Bahorel. But when I hit 5000 words I decided to be sensible and stop.
> 
> So, lots of canon references here. Courfeyrac's hat, Combeferre and his pistols, also blink-and-you'll-miss-him Gavroche. The saying in French about the Corinthe translates to "revel if you will, eat if you dare" and courfeyrac wrote it in chalk over the door to the restaurant.
> 
> The best bit about writing this fic is re-reading the brick and all the fun the guys had together. Courfeyrac going out with Marius, Bossuet and R and thoroughly embarrassing Marius (even if he was a touch misogynistic - we'll forgive him, because it was 1830 and Hugo assures us he has honour). He also had a swordstick - A SWORDSTICK! Because a revolution without sporting the most pretentious weapon in history is a revolution not worth having. I always loved Courf, but I love him a little more having written this chapter. 
> 
> R is a Star Wars fan however I get the feeling the references go right over Enjolras's head.
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented and left kudos. I'll try not to leave chapter 3 so long this time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Right, let’s go over this again.”_
> 
> _Courfeyrac groaned, dropping his head down onto his arms. Across the room, Combeferre was tapping away enthusiastically on his laptop, pen wedged between his teeth as he added another column to his spreadsheet._
> 
> Combeferre is on a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am extremely sorry for how long this has taken me. This chapter was a royal pain in the proverbial rear end and it has been sitting here in various stages on non-completion for far too long.
> 
> With that in mind, huge bouquets of roses go to Sarah (purple_embroidery) for listening to be moan and groan and complain and whine and everything else over the past few months. Also a great big thank you (with flowers and wine and chocolate) to Hayley for proof-reading it, despite our differences of opinion over the uses and abuses of the comma ;-p
> 
> I don't think anything needs a tw or a cw in this chapter but if anyone would like me to tag something please let me know.

“Right, let’s go over this again.”

Courfeyrac groaned, dropping his head down onto his arms. Across the room, Combeferre was tapping away enthusiastically on his laptop, pen wedged between his teeth as he added another column to his spreadsheet. 

“Ferre, I don’t want to go over it again,” Courf protested, noting with some alarm that it had gone two o’clock in the morning. Ferre swung round on his desk chair, eyebrows raised.

“But I feel we’re really making some progress here. Every detail, no matter how apparently insignificant, could explain…”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac interrupted, holding up his hands, because seriously, if his boyfriend started his ‘keys to solving the whole puzzle’ speech again, Courfeyrac would not be responsible for the inevitable violence or temper tantrum that would ensue. Combeferre blinked at him mildly, closing his mouth in surprise at Courfeyrac’s tone.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. It had been three days since Combeferre had gotten his memories back and while, at first, Courfeyrac had been relieved that he wasn’t alone, he was now beginning to wish that nothing had changed. It was quieter when it was just him. 

Before, Combeferre had listened to Courfeyrac patiently explain about the riot inside his mind and then left Courfeyrac to his own thoughts – or, at least, had been sensitive enough to recognise that Courfeyrac felt uncomfortable discussing it. But now, having gotten over the initial shock and nausea that seemed to accompany the return of his nineteenth-century mind, it was all Combeferre could talk about. Unfortunately it wasn’t something they could discuss openly in front of Enjolras. This meant private moments - time that Courfeyrac felt would be better spent talking about the present and the future if talking was required at all – were devoted to endless discussion about the images and emotions packed inside his mind.

“Ferre, I died!” Courfeyrac rubbed his eyes, emotion making his voice tremble as his latent fears began to boil over. “We both _died_. Our lives were cut short in the most awful way when I was little older than I am now. Is that what I have to look forward to?” 

Courfeyrac felt himself start to shake. He had tried to hold this back because Combeferre had been so excited, so enthusiastic about this new discovery and the potential it had. He didn’t seem to have grasped other, less positive questions that were raised but it was all Courfeyrac had been able to think about.

“Have we only got, what, two years left? Maybe three? Is it a Cassandra Complex where it’s a terrible warning of the future but there’s nothing I can do about it? Or maybe I try to do something about it and by doing something change the future so that it accidentally happens?” He looked up at Combeferre desperately, needing his boyfriend to understand. 

Combeferre was up off his chair and over by Courfeyrac’s side in a moment, putting his arms round him and pulling him close, hushing him softly.

“You watch too much sci-fi, Courf,” he soothed. “Besides, the streets of Paris are far too wide for barricades to be built in them today.”

Courfeyrac thumped Combeferre’s back lightly in protest.

“Ferre, I love you, but that is not how you comfort someone,” he muttered gruffly into Combeferre’s shirt. Combeferre said nothing, holding him all the tighter. Eventually Courf pulled back, just far enough to rest their foreheads together.

“If I’d have known we had such little time, I wouldn’t have waited ‘til University to tell you how I felt,” he whispered, still pale and eyes downcast. Combeferre caught Courfeyrac’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his boyfriend’s head up so he could kiss him softly.

“I can’t promise anything about the future, but you know I’m going to research the fuck out of this,” Combeferre murmured. He smiled, pleased that some colour had returned to Courfeyrac’s cheeks. Courfeyrac smiled in return.

“Oh, you know I love it when you swear, Ferre,” he replied, voice regaining some of its usual strength, exaggerating a shiver. Combeferre grinned.

“The _fuck_ out of it,” he repeated.

“Can’t you research the fuck out of it tomorrow and tonight just fuck?” Courfeyrac asked, grinning suggestively.

Combeferre groaned in reply, pushing Courfeyrac away from him in feigned disgust, his boyfriend cackling in delight as he hit the pillows.

“You know, I’d say I was shocked to hear you say such a thing but that would be a lie.”

+

Keeping his word, Combeferre judiciously went to the campus central library with the intent of doing some research not only on the phenomenon of reincarnation and past lives, but also on Revolutionary France in the hope of pinning down some sort of timeline to work with. 

He was still worried about Courfeyrac, particularly the way in which he was reacting to what was happening to them. Courfeyrac was such a warm soul and it pained Combeferre to see him so distressed. He was more or less the same as the shadows Combeferre remembered from the past; cheeky, bright, the centre of attention. He had a wicked sense of humour, perhaps a touch more forgiving this time around, but still the same, essential Courfeyrac that Combeferre knew and loved.

Combeferre respected the fact that Courfeyrac was feeling rather vulnerable about the whole thing, having had longer to reflect on the new state of affairs. He could understand Courfeyrac’s concerns, especially with regards to the purpose of regaining their memories as well as the timing, although Combeferre felt it was more likely that there was no specific purpose. The universe was an infinite and incredible place and the tiny human race clinging desperately to the surface of one planet wasn’t even close to discovering even a tiny bit of its meaning or potential.

There were thousands of possibilities and Combeferre was still trying to catalogue all the variables. The first on his list was the likelihood of there being others.

Enjolras was obviously with them, albeit still very much in the twenty-first century. But that didn’t mean their other friends weren’t floating around Paris somewhere. If Combeferre remembered correctly, nearly all of them had come to Paris from the south of France for the purpose of study. That pattern had, in the case of Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras at least, repeated itself once more. It was therefore more than probable that the others were here too.

Lost in contemplation, Combeferre managed to make a wrong turn on the third floor of the library, being that he was used to the Educational and Pedagogy sections. He eventually found himself in the microfiche archive. At the far end, bent over a projector, was Jean Prouvaire. On reflection, there was no better place to bump into Prouvaire than at the library.

Combeferre very nearly called out a salutation, instinct taking over as though it was the most natural thing in the world to greet his friend; for it was most definitely Prouvaire. He may have been wearing eye-searing yellow skinny jeans with matching Doctor Martin boots and a pale blue Care Bear t-shirt, but there was no mistaking him. Combeferre only just managed to swallow his greeting, successfully turning the first syllable into a cough. However, as far as cunning plans went it was doomed to failure, as a cough in an otherwise silent library was bound to draw attention.

“Oh, hey Combeferre,” the Person Who Was Definitely Jean Prouvaire looked up from his projector and gave him a cheery wave. “Nice to see you.”

Combeferre paused for a moment, feeling his face flush various different colours. He was never flustered so the whole sensation of being caught off guard by this cheerful nymph was entirely alien to him. But after a moment he pulled himself together and strode over to where his friend was waiting patiently, still smiling.

Prouvaire bounced to his feet, reaching out to press two enthusiastic kisses to each cheek, hugging Combeferre tightly before standing back and beaming brightly.

“How did you know it was me?” Combeferre eventually stuttered out, mind racing because it couldn’t be a given. Enjolras didn’t remember anything and there had been quite the gap between Courfeyrac regaining his memories and Ferre regaining his. Combeferre was already cataloguing and making mental notes to update his spreadsheet.

“Oh, Combeferre, I’d know you anywhere,” Jehan replied easily, a hint of mock reproach in his tone. He reached up with his hands, cupping Combeferre’s face as he studied it, evidently finding whatever he saw pleasing.

“You weren’t alone, were you, darling?” Prouvaire ran a thumb gently on Combeferre’s cheek before releasing him.

“No, Courfeyrac remembers too.”

At the mention of Courfeyrac’s name, Prouvaire seemed to light up and Combeferre felt a tug in his heart. Courfeyrac was right. He had been so caught up in the revelation of the memories, of the desire to research and gather knowledge and theorise that he had lost sight of the fact that these had been his very dear friends and they had died by his side.

He remembered all too well the feeling of Jehan’s hand pressed in his while Enjolras spoke; Prouvaire’s melancholy air and often dreaming gaze. He knew what terrible fate had befallen this intrepid young man. All at once the sensation of fighting the tide overwhelmed him.

“It’s ok,” Jehan murmured, obviously seeing some of those thoughts as they flashed across Combeferre’s face. “It is what it is.”

They sat down by the projector, Combeferre filled with hundreds of questions, his brilliant mind rushing through everything that he knew or suspected so far.

“Enjolras is here, too, but he doesn’t remember yet,” he advised. He was rewarded once more with that sunny smile.

“Well we match, then,” Jehan laughed, “because we have R and he doesn’t remember either.”

Combeferre drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening as Jehan’s words sunk in.

“R is here?” he spluttered, racing mind suddenly coming to a stop. Prouvaire chuckled at Combeferre’s bemused expression.

“Oh, I know that look! You had a theory; a theory that I have just thoroughly spoiled.” Jehan leant forward resting his chin on his hands.

“Tell me everything,” he instructed.

+

It was a surreal afternoon by all accounts. Suddenly, everyone was there. 

It started with Jean Prouvaire seizing Combeferre by the arm in a very intimate and friendly manner and all but dragging him from the microfiche archive, whatever he had been working on forgotten. As they approached the checkout desk, Prouvaire had called out a cheerful greeting and Combeferre had only just kept his head because Grantaire was standing _right there_.

He looked healthier than Combeferre remembered, his eyes still pin sharp and bright with the intelligence within. As they rested on Combeferre they were devoid of any recognition. He was stacking books and it took Combeferre a moment to realise that Grantaire worked there. 

“Kidnapping more friends, Prouvaire?” Grantaire called out cheerfully. Prouvaire closed his eyes and raised his nose and Combeferre couldn’t help but stutter a laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

“Be careful, monsieur,” Grantaire winked at him, lowering his voice into an exaggerated whisper, “this young man is not all that he appears. See how like a delicate flower he would appear! Ducking his head and blushes painting his cheeks. He would have you believe that he spends his days sighing over the fate of Dido when really he is pressing on for Sicily with a scarce glance at the carnage he leaves behind.”

Combeferre was only vaguely aware of the reference, mind still whirring at Grantaire’s very presence which, as Prouvaire had so rightly leapt upon, had spoiled a theory he had begun to formulate. Still, not one to give up, he assimilated the new information and revised his conclusions appropriately.

Jehan and Grantaire were still exchanging friendly banter until Prouvaire suddenly caught Combeferre’s arm once more and led him away from the checkout desk, still calling behind him about how he would see R later.

“I told you,” Prouvaire smiled brightly, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“I never said I didn’t believe you,” Combeferre murmured, still pondering. “He seems well.”

“He is,” Jehan nodded enthusiastically. “He lives with Joly and Bossuet. But I’ll let them tell you their story.”

Combeferre found himself in a bar, having his ribs crushed by Bahorel who didn’t appear to be saying anything. Over his shoulder, Combeferre could see Feuilly working behind the bar. It was then that Combeferre decided to text Courfeyrac because if he was going to spend the afternoon being introduced to old friends then it was only fair that he return the favour.

+

They were such a nice bunch of people. Even without the Repressed Memories Situation (which was apparently what they were calling it) he could see them being good friends. Combeferre made a concerted effort to try to know them as they were now, rather than trying to make nineteenth century assumptions. 

Courfeyrac had been quiet at first until Bossuet had coaxed him into a conversation about a comedian they both liked while Jehan coloured in his fingernails with a purple sharpie. Eventually conversation loosened up enough to include a few “do you remembers,” Courfeyrac elbowing Feuilly with a wink.

“You and I with our swords, eh?” he chuckled. Feuilly grinned in response.

“Hey, we’re having a party at Bahorel’s place,” Jehan interjected. “You guys should come.” A murmur of agreement went round the room.

“And what of Enjolras?” Bahorel asked. They were all thinking it, Combeferre could tell. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows.

“Sure, we’ll bring Enjolras.”

+

Combeferre couldn’t help but feel unaccountably nervous as they approached Bahorel’s apartment and he was grateful for Courfeyrac’s hand pressed in his. Behind them he was aware of Enjolras, hands thrust in the pockets of his coat, collar turned up against the Parisian chill. He couldn’t help but wonder if tonight might be the moment that triggered Enjolras’s memories. Perhaps being in a room with all his friends would set him off. Or perhaps…

Combeferre did have another theory. Ever since Jehan had told him that R was here Combeferre had started to wonder. Grantaire didn’t remember either. Combeferre knew from his discussions with Bahorel that his friend’s memories had been triggered by a discussion with Feuilly. Similarly, Bossuet had been talking with Grantaire, as had Joly. So, Combeferre theorised, it was entirely possible that Enjolras might regain his memories when he met Grantaire, and vice versa.

With all these things weighing on his mind, Combeferre rang the bell at the street door to Bahorel’s apartment.

Prouvaire answered the door, drawing them all inside with a slightly more exuberant faire la bise than perhaps would be usual amongst apparently recent acquaintances, but if Enjolras minded he didn’t show it. He seemed to take to Prouvaire at once, accepting the simple statement that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had told him all about Enjolras and how he was certain they would be the best of friends. Courfeyrac was laughing and Combeferre felt an affectionate warmth spreading through him at the somewhat lost and bemused look on Enjolras’s face as he allowed Prouvaire (“you must call me Jehan”) to link their arms and drag him into the apartment.

It was ever so surreal to watch Enjolras enter the living room where most of their friends were gathered. Bahorel pounced on him at once, welcoming him warmly and introducing himself. Combeferre watched with interest as Enjolras struck up a conversation with Feuilly who, Combeferre knew, Enjolras had always held in high regard. Combeferre could read the surprise and conflict on Feuilly’s face and he felt a pang of sympathy; it was hard to pretend not to know your friend and yet to recognise them so clearly, however well they wore their twenty-first century life.

Joly approached next but Combeferre missed most of their conversation as Bahorel and Feuilly came over to greet them.

“Nice to see our fearless leader,” Bahorel commented as everyone’s eyes were drawn back to the blond.

“Does anyone else find this really weird?” Courfeyrac commented, accepting a drink from Feuilly who raised his own in a sort of toast before nodding in agreement.

“Some of his mannerisms, in particular,” he commented. “He is the same, but not.”

“It makes me wish as though I could have met you before you regained your memories,” Combeferre considered, half to himself. “I wonder if it was the same for all of us; if we are essentially the same, just with modern influences making a difference.”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to reply, but just then Grantaire appeared from Bahorel’s kitchen and everyone’s attention was caught at the same moment.

“And this is Grantaire,” Joly gestured to the man in question, glass in hand, wild curls tumbling in all directions and Combeferre couldn’t stop his mind from flashing back nearly two hundred years. 

Grantaire’s body language was decidedly looser now that he was with friends, and Combeferre doubted that was his first drink of the evening, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. He wore a crooked smile that only broadened as he took in the sight of Enjolras before him; Combeferre held his breath.

This was it. He waited for any sign of recognition on either side, for any sort of reaction. It felt as though the whole room was still, waiting and watching with baited breath as the two men took each other in.

“Hello again,” Grantaire greeted jovially, eyes twinkling. Combeferre’s entire stomach dropped and he felt Courfeyrac’s hand contract tightly round his. He turned to look at Enjolras whose face had gone completely blank, lips flattened into a line. If his theory was right and Enjolras remembered, then his friend’s reaction was nothing short of terrifying.

“Enjolras…?” Combeferre started, but Enjolras blinked before opening his mouth to answer, cutting across anything else Combeferre might have said.

“We’ve met,” Enjolras replied, voice dangerously cool. Combeferre glanced up to Grantaire who was grinning wickedly, eyes glinting before he dropped into a mock bow while Enjolras continued to hold himself stiffly, his cheeks pinking ever so slightly in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Combeferre’s mind started to buzz as he mentally started to rewrite everything he had thought up to this moment. Enjolras had already met Grantaire; he had met Grantaire and not mentioned it to Combeferre which in and of itself wasn’t an issue, why would he mention Grantaire to him; Enjolras didn’t know who Grantaire was…

“Breathe, Ferre,” Courfeyrac murmured in his ear quietly before pressing a kiss to his neck. Combeferre took a deep breath, forcing his racing thought process to a halt. Instead he turned his attention back to the drama unfolding before them. 

“Enjolras is ‘library princess’?!” Bossuet spluttered, choking slightly on his drink so that Joly had to hit him hard on the back. Combeferre didn’t understand the reference but Enjolras’s complexion flashed through to red, not out of embarrassment but from fury and from somewhere behind, Combeferre heard Bahorel unsuccessfully repress a snort.

“Some things never change,” a low voice muttered, and Combeferre couldn’t help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your patience. Also your comments and kudos are hugely appreciated - you're all wonderful!
> 
> Hopefully the next bit will flow a bit easier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grantaire caught a flash of blond out of the corner of his eye as the lift doors opened to the Politics floor of the library. Ignoring the slight rise in his pulse rate, he concentrated on pushing the heavy trolley of books, neatly stacked ready to be re-shelved._
> 
> Grantaire and Enjolras get to know each other a little more...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!   
> No warnings for this chapter either - I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Bouquets of flowers and large bottles of wine to both Hayley and Sarah for cheering me on and offering their time and beta-ship skills.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone for your lovely comments so far.

Grantaire caught a flash of blond out of the corner of his eye as the lift doors opened to the Politics floor of the library. Ignoring the slight rise in his pulse rate, he concentrated on pushing the heavy trolley of books, neatly stacked ready to be re-shelved.

There was something oddly poetic and circular about his job. The books seemed to take on a life of their own, wandering off on adventures only to find themselves returned to his trolley so that he could put them back in order, knowing full well that he would be seeing them again at the returns desk sooner or later. He had even been known to remark “oh not you again,” at particular books that seemed to have a habit of disappearing and reappearing on a regular basis. 

When some came back looking a little worse for wear, Grantaire would studiously recover them, grumbling as he gently stroked the battered spines or re-sewed loose leaves. “What have they done to you, eh?” he whispered as he carefully moulded them back into an acceptable condition.

Some librarians thought re-shelving was boring so Grantaire quite frequently started his shift with a trolley full of books. Personally, he rather enjoyed seeing what other students were reading. He had picked up quite a few interesting texts that way. Plus it never hurt to widen your repertoire; you never knew when it might come in handy.

Which brought his thoughts back to Enjolras.

Library Princess finally had a name. Ok, so it had been slightly mortifying to find him in Bahorel’s flat, of all places. He apparently came as part of a package with the latest addition to Prouvaire’s collection of friends. The friend in question, Combeferre, seemed nice enough, from what Grantaire had seen. Prouvaire generally had an excellent taste in friends, himself notwithstanding. 

That was another thing; somehow this rag-tag bunch had adopted him, just as Prouvaire had adopted them. 

It wasn’t that Grantaire had been friendless before coming to Paris. But the people who had fluttered in and out of his life and done so with a bland sort of sigh. They existed but none had really left an impression. Grantaire certainly didn’t miss anyone from back home. But these people – Joly, Laigle, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan – already, they’d all had a significant impact on him in the one winter he had known them. Their casual touches of friendship had burned him in such a way that might leave a scar if it was ever withdrawn.

It would have been so easy for Joly and Laigle to forget him, however accidentally, after they finally pulled themselves together, their friendship evolving into a relationship. He tried to give them space but they seemed to insist on his company, even if he was sure he was getting in their way. He had voiced his concerns once, but Joly had dismissed them with a wave of his hand, telling him not to be ridiculous. Grantaire was convinced he wasn’t being ridiculous at all, but as neither of his friends seemed to mind his third-wheel appearances he let it be.

Bahorel always rang him if he was thinking of heading to the gym, begging him to come along for a quick sparring session. He did sketching classes with Feuilly on a Tuesday evening, even though he was fairly sure it was one of only two nights that Feuilly had free in the week. When he had tentatively suggested that perhaps Feuilly might want to spend the time with his boyfriend, Feuilly had rolled his eyes, muttering something about having seen enough of Bahorel’s ugly mug to last two lifetimes. Bahorel had barked a laugh, slapping his boyfriend’s backside in retaliation. Apparently that meant that Feuilly should continue attending the classes with Grantaire.

Even Courfeyrac had asked for his number, insisting that they should meet up for drinks sometime as someone – presumably Jehan – had told him that Grantaire had a particular talent for sniffing out decent watering holes in Paris. Coming from anyone else, Grantaire might have written it off as mere politeness, but there was already a text in his inbox asking if Thursday evening was convenient.

And now, here was Enjolras, though admittedly that could be entirely coincidental. After all, this was a library and Enjolras was a student. 

On his way to a particularly boring shelf which housed the texts on various political voting systems, Grantaire’s eye was caught by a familiar bright red coat thrown over a chair and a small stack of books on the desk. Knowing that Enjolras was somewhere, charging about the floor in search of other texts, Grantaire couldn’t help but be tempted towards what was obviously the latest pile of research for an essay. As he drew closer, he could see a hastily scrawled note lying on top of the pile.

_Please do not touch, move, tidy or otherwise interfere with these books. They have not been abandoned and they are very much needed however they have been left unsupervised for just a moment while I locate other important texts._

Grantaire wanted to keep the note. Dear lord, who was this ridiculous human?! Was Enjolras even real? He glanced over the texts piled on the desk. By the looks of it Enjolras was researching France’s role in the origins of the EU. Casting a quick look over his shoulder to make sure Enjolras was nowhere in sight, R quickly took the pen from behind his ear and wrote “bien suR” at the bottom of the note, making the capital R almost ludicrous in its size so that the guy would be under no illusions as to which library fairy had visited the desk in his absence.

Then, chuckling to himself, he continued on with his afternoon because books wouldn’t stack themselves, however much he might anthropomorphise their existence.

+

Enjolras heaved a sigh of relief as he rounded the corner and the pile of books was still on the desk. He had only been gone for a few minutes and he wasn’t sure why he was feeling so paranoid as the note he had left was self-explanatory. 

Libraries had always been his favourite place; he appreciated the atmosphere, the scent of books and the sight of shelf after shelf of texts all just begging to be consumed. Each represented someone else’s passion; someone who had felt so strongly about a topic they had put pen to paper in order to record and share their knowledge. Libraries were a concrete metaphor of recommendation. “Read this,” their databases seemed to say, “we think it’s so important we have five copies of the same text so that more than one person might read it at the same time.”

However, he couldn’t deny the odd little knot that had formed in his stomach since entering the library. 

With a sigh, Enjolras dropped the newly-acquired texts down next to the existing pile which was when he noticed the note. His pulse rate absolutely did not increase at the sight of unfamiliar scrawl in black ink, and the heat creeping up the back of his neck was completely unrelated to the large capital R that he was definitely not stroking with his thumb. 

+

One might almost call it a cliché, the scene that greeted Enjolras has he entered the crowded bar. Three tables had been pushed together, commandeered by his new group of friends. The surface was littered with empty glasses and there was a huge bellow of laughter filtering through the crowd. Just another Friday night out. Except that it wasn’t Friday night, it was Wednesday and Enjolras had a nine o’clock lecture to attend in the morning. Having been kicked out of the library at closing time, Enjolras had dropped into the Union bar with the sole intention of collecting his two best friends. 

“Ah! Here he is, our fearless leader!” Bahorel opened his arms wide in greeting. Feuilly, sitting next to him, swatted his bicep although Enjolras doubted Bahorel felt it.

“Leader of the what?” he replied in lieu of a greeting. Courfeyrac was coughing, likely the result of his drink going down the wrong way; Joly was hitting him hard on the back whilst encouraging him to breathe. Everyone else was looking up at him, mostly smiling although Combeferre looked rather pained which was an interesting expression. Enjolras was just about to ask what was going on when Grantaire spoke up.

“You have a natural quality, Enjolras.” Soft brown eyes, slightly unfocussed, looked up at him as Grantaire’s fingers toyed with the lip of his glass. “Your stride carries a purpose; your shoulders bear the burdens of the world in such a way as to put Atlas to shame. You are Achilles on the battlefield -”

“And that’s your last drink,” Joly reached over to pluck the glass from R’s fingers. “And don’t look at me like that. You’ve already started with the ancient Greek references. One more drink and you’d have Prouvaire in tears with your terrible poetry.”

Enjolras looked at Combeferre for help, wondering what the hell was going on. He felt extremely out of his depth, especially as… was Combeferre laughing at him? Enjolras was clearly missing some important piece of information but before he had the chance to enquire further, Combeferre clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder.

“Actually, we better get going,” he advised, rising to his feet. Courfeyrac seemed to take the hint and started to shrug on his coat. 

There was a quick round of hugs, Bahorel and Feuilly reaching over to shake Enjolras’s hand, while Prouvaire climbed over them all in order to bind Enjolras in a tight hug. 

“Next time,” Prouvaire fixed Enjolras with a fierce expression, “you should join us earlier and stay later.”

Enjolras nodded his agreement, slightly regretting their hasty departure. Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s new friends were a sweet group and they seemed to have taken to him. But the fact remained that it was Wednesday and he had lectures, not to mention two essays and a seminar presentation to prepare.

Prouvaire saw Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac to the door before returning to the table where R and Joly were still arguing over cutting Grantaire off.

“Well, when was the last time we went out together and stayed sober?” Joly said bracingly, plastering a smile on his face.

“What on earth would be the purpose of that?” Grantaire looked bemused. “Surely the entire point of the exercise - the very concept of being a student - is to avoid our lectures at all costs and waste our student loans in the student bar?” 

Laigle snorted. “Don’t let Enjolras hear you say that,” he muttered. Joly elbowed him sharply in the ribs as Grantaire looked at him in confusion, not entirely sure what the library princess had to do with anything. Joly took a deep breath. 

“I just think you should seriously consider the damage you could be doing to your liver. The instances of Liver Disease in the under-thirties has risen by half in the last ten years…” 

Grantaire snorted, shaking his head as he sat back staring at Joly like he had just grown another head. “How can you sit there and look me in the eye when you know damn well that you drink more than I do?” Grantaire was incredulous.

Of course, Prouvaire knew where all this was coming from. But one couldn’t very well tell someone that they were worried about mistakes made in another lifetime. Bahorel and Feuilly were pointedly looking at their own glasses while Joly struggled to come up with a reply that didn’t involve a certain row at a particular barricade that no one wanted to mention. Finally, R’s face cleared and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Ok, if it makes you happy, I’ll give it up for Lent,” he sighed, settling back in his seat. “Not that I’m religious in any way for Lent to mean anything to me. But if it means that much to you -” The rest of his sentence was lost as both Joly and Bossuet pounced on him, half strangling him with their hug.

+

Combeferre looked up from his book because Enjolras had been worryingly quiet for over twenty minutes. Usually their study sessions were interspersed with pertinent questions or critical comments focusing on the texts they were reading, even if Combeferre wasn’t doing the same course as Enjolras or Courfeyrac. All three of them had perfected their studying technique a long time ago, thrashing out ideas and discussing the topic from as many points as possible. But not today.

Enjolras had been scribbling furiously in his A4 planner and Combeferre took a moment to examine the look of extreme concentration on his friend’s face before clearing his throat.

“Everything ok?” he enquired. Courfeyrac looked up from his own essay at the interruption. Enjolras hummed thoughtfully, finishing the sentence he was working on before answering.

“I was thinking of setting up a new Society,” Enjolras said at last, looking up from where he had been scribbling intently. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre caught the jerk of Courfeyrac’s head, but rather than meet whatever look Courfeyrac was aiming at him, he chose to lean forward towards Enjolras.

“And this is your manifesto?” Combeferre enquired, holding his hand out with the intent that Enjolras might pass it to him if he was so obliged. Enjolras nodded, passing it over readily for his friend to read.

“I know I’ve already applied to be on the committee for the Sorbonne’s branch of Amnesty next year, but I’ve been looking through the Register of Societies and can’t find one that addresses social issues and politics, especially with regards to the MOGAI community.”

Combeferre smiled, reading down the list of points Enjolras had drawn up. He wondered how long this had been bothering Enjolras. Somewhere in the back of his mind his memories stirred; another young man with the same steely glint in his blue eyes was muttering to him in a lowered tone about forming a group because _something_ needed to be done about the impoverished state of the French people. 

“It seems to me,” Enjolras continued when Combeferre didn’t say anything, “that a lot of the Societies are content to do one or two drives a year and spend the rest of the time in the Union bar – and no there’s nothing wrong with socialising, Courf, before you start,” Courfeyrac snapped his mouth shut, allowing Enjolras to continue. “But I do feel we could do with a Society that looks particularly at the issues experienced by MOGAI youth.”

Combeferre finally looked at Courfeyrac, wondering what his boyfriend thought about it all. He passed over Enjolras’s notes and Courfeyrac took a moment to read them through before looking up, grinning.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Courf replied and Enjolras’s face lit up with a smile.

“You’ll have to go through all the proper channels,” Combeferre cautioned, passing Enjolras’s notebook back to him, “but otherwise count me in.”

+

“How doth the fair Enjolras this evening?” 

Grantaire suddenly appeared at Enjolras’s elbow, greeting him jubilantly before sipping from his glass. It might have been coke. It might also have been vodka and coke. Enjolras eyed him suspiciously. 

“Are you drunk?” Enjolras was in no mood to be made fun of by anyone, especially if they were a couple of drinks down. Courfeyrac had dragged him out even though he was fully aware that Enjolras had his conclusion to finish. 

Not that he had gone out expecting to have a bad time; quite the opposite. He had been looking forward to spending some more time with his new friend group. He wasn’t quite ready to talk to them about his new Society yet, but he had a feeling quite a few of them might be interested in joining. Certainly from the few times he had been out with them so far, they seemed like the sort of people he would like to be involved. 

But not much talking had happened so far this evening. He hadn’t noticed until just that moment, but while he had started the evening in the middle of things, Prouvaire having waved him to a chair between himself and Feuilly, he was now most certainly on the outside. He wasn’t even sure exactly what his friends were talking about. Courfeyrac was laughing with Laigle and Prouvaire, while Combeferre was in deep discussion with Joly – something science-related judging by the amount of Latin being thrown around.

Enjolras had been talking with Feuilly before getting up for another drink, which was where Grantaire had found him. Grantaire was something of an enigma; Enjolras had found his eyes being drawn over to the guy more than once that evening as he laughed and joked with Joly. 

Grantaire, who was smiling at him right now, while he ducked his head.

“Alas, I am as sober as the proverbial judge. More is the pity.”

“Why a pity? You don’t need alcohol to enjoy yourself,” Enjolras looked very much like he was about to continue at length so Grantaire decided to be bold and interrupt him before it got started.

“I heartily agree with your assertion, and must protest that was not what I meant when I spoke of pity. I refer to the somewhat sad state of affairs of being the only one sober in the room. While our friends giggle and burp over follies that I would no doubt find hysterical were I a few more sheets to the wind, currently I find myself in a state of confusion. Especially as the current topic for discussion is the pronunciation of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t imagine for a moment what would be so hilarious about Napoleon, be it his name or his legacy, but looking over to where his friends were gathered he saw that Grantaire was correct. Joly was almost on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. Combeferre was flushed pink and Courfeyrac had his head thrown back. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves far too much.

He turned back to Grantaire who was still smiling softly at him. 

“So, what are you plans for the summer?”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras felt confused. It was only just March; summer was miles away, the second semester had barely begun.

“Well, we all have to move out of halls in June. Most people have already started looking for houses. I think Joly and Laigle will be willing to put up with me for another year,” Grantaire paused to take another drink and Enjolras was definitely not looking at the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

“There’s some sort of politics going on with Bahorel, Feuilly and Jehan, and I didn’t want to make any assumptions about the interesting little ménage a trois you and C-squared have got going on…”

Enjolras let out a cough as he realised what Grantaire was referring to.

“We haven’t really discussed it,” he replied, recovering his breath. “But I imagine we would be living together.” Grantaire’s grin was unquestioningly suggestive and Enjolras groaned, even though he laughed in spite of himself.

“No, not like that!”

+

The next time Enjolras saw Grantaire he almost went over to say hello. 

Of course it was in the library; Enjolras was beginning to feel he spent more time on the Politics floor than in his own bed. When he had jokingly made the observation out loud one day, Combeferre hadn’t laughed but had suggested that maybe Enjolras should set himself a timer so that his hours in the library were limited to a certain amount a week. Courfeyrac had nearly fallen off his chair laughing at the look on Enjolras’s face in response.

Enjolras had just been given permission to submit a full proposal for a new Society next year and was looking for ideas and input from everyone. Remembering how helpful Grantaire had been with regards sources for his essays, plus the few successful conversations held in a less formal setting, Enjolras was keen on getting his opinion.

Except that Grantaire was busy with someone else.

Well, that was fine. It was to be expected, really. Grantaire was a librarian and there were over twenty-three thousand students at the Sorbonne so it was entirely reasonable that one or two of them might require some help in the library at the same time that Grantaire was scheduled to work.

The person in question was female. From a subjective point of view, on the basis that it wasn’t really Enjolras’s forte, then one could argue that she was quite attractive. She had long, red hair in curls, and Grantaire’s hand brushed an errant lock behind her ear.

Enjolras went back to his reading, turning his back to the nonsense going on behind him, but was disturbed only a moment later by girlish giggling and a gruff laugh. Enjolras felt his irritation rise. This was a library. They should go and laugh somewhere else, somewhere Enjolras wasn’t. He shot a look over his shoulder but neither party was glancing in his direction in order to appreciate it. Instead, Enjolras was treated to the sight of Grantaire’s hand resting lightly on the woman’s shoulder.

Growling slightly – which made absolutely no sense at all, and Enjolras wasn’t prepared to analyse the grumbling noise emanating from his throat – he turned his back on them once more and tried to focus on the small mountain of paperwork before him.

They were acquaintances. Friends of friends. They had spoken on a couple of occasions and ok, yes, Grantaire’s recommendations had salvaged more than one essay. There was no excuse for the knot currently twisting in Enjolras’s gut.

+

“Oh my god, you utter nerd!” Courfeyrac exclaimed as Combeferre produced a folder and started to hand out photocopies to all the gathered friends. 

They were in Bahorel’s apartment. Grantaire and Enjolras were both at the library, both working, but in vastly different ways. It meant that the group could get together and talk freely without having to mind their words too much. There had been a couple of close calls, incidents where a sharp elbow had been required as either Enjolras or Grantaire had responded to a particular statement or question with confusion.

Prouvaire was curled up on a beanbag, glancing through the pages Combeferre had handed to him. It was an overview with summarising bullet points of the spreadsheet Combeferre had put together after subjecting each of them to the same rigorous questioning he had put Courfeyrac through. He had then holed himself up for thirty-six hours, not even permitting Courfeyrac to interrupt him, before emerging with his final theories.

“So, where does Marius fit into this theory of yours?” Courfeyrac didn’t bother to open his copy, preferring to ask a direct question rather than wading through the paperwork.

“I believe he may have survived,” Combeferre replied, returning to his seat at the centre of the room. Joly and Bossuet were sitting on the small sofa, turning pages in almost perfect synchronisation. At Combeferre’s words, Joly looked up.

“No one remembers seeing him die. As far as I can tell, he was still alive when I…” Combeferre paused, swallowing slightly, feeling Courfeyrac catch his hand. “He was still alive when I fell and I believe I was the last.”

“Except for Enjolras?” Bossuet clarified. Combeferre nodded.

“Except for Enjolras,” he confirmed, “and, apparently, Grantaire.”

An uneasy silence descended over the group. Nearly everyone had witnessed the row between Enjolras and Grantaire the night before the barricade fell, and the others had heard about it from the rest.

“I can’t work out where he fits in to all this,” Combeferre huffed impatiently at his own notes as if they were being entirely unreasonable. “The last we know of him, he was still passed out in the wine shop.” 

“Maybe he was killed by a stray bullet?” Joly rubbed his shoulder ruefully.

“Or the National Guard found him,” Feuilly suggested, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

“He might have survived,” Prouvaire murmured. “We could we waiting years for him to remember.”

“Which brings us back to Marius,” Courfeyrac spoke up again. Everyone delicately chose to ignore the slight red tinge to the top of Combeferre’s ears. Marius seemed to be coming up in conversation more and more often. While Combeferre had theories, he couldn’t pretend to know everything. He was very open with the fact that they were still missing huge chunks of the picture, specifically what happened after his own memories came to a halt.

“So we just have to keep our eyes open,” Bahorel sighed, setting down his own papers. “Feuilly and I were together for years before my memories were sparked. Jehan was on his own. That’s not any kind of pattern on which to guess how or when or even if Enjolras will wake up one day with the same memories as the rest of us.”

There was a hum of agreement from the rest of the room.

“And when he does maybe he’ll be able to add even more to the picture, as to whether or not Grantaire is likely to remember or if his being in Paris is entirely coincidental to the whole... weird… Repressed Memories thing.” Feuilly patted Bahorel’s arm as his boyfriend stuttered to a halt.

Joly gave Bossuet a look and his boyfriend nodded in silent understanding. Whatever else had happened in that wine shop on that June morning so long ago, it was extremely unlikely Grantaire would have lived long in a world without his friends, much less one without Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know - do people want a "director's cut, easter egg" list of references to make sure they got them all? Or maybe you didn't get any and are sitting there going "what references?" and so definitely need a list because why the hell were they all laughing themselves silly over Napoleon?
> 
> In all seriousness, you guys are amazing and I am seriously overwhelmed by the response to my little fic.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire carry on as normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just isn't an angsty fic. There are no warnings because nothing nasty is happening.  
> I do, however, apologise for any spelling or grammar crimes because this is unbeta'd.  
> Enjoy!

“OH MY GOD!”

Enjolras jumped, twisting left and right in what was no doubt, on reflection, a highly absurd motion; but then he had been deep in thought in an otherwise silent room. To be pulled back to reality because someone was shouting – someone whose voice wasn’t familiar and who certainly hadn’t been in the room a few moments previously – was bound to trigger his fight-or-flight instinct. 

The sensation was compounded as an unfamiliar arm reached past his ear, causing Enjolras to startle back, almost falling off his chair. It took him a moment to realise that the hand meant him no harm, but was instead headed in the direction of his mug of coffee. The hand snatched the mug and removed it from its current perch on top of one of the many books littering Enjolras’s desk.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Enjolras swung round to face his assailant, ready for a repeated assault, even if the only victim so far had been the coffee that Combeferre had brought to him about… er, well, the last sip had been warm, so forty-five minutes ago.

“Rescuing this poor innocent book!” came the spluttered reply, and Enjolras finally got a good look at the wild man who had intruded upon his sanctuary; oh for heaven’s sake, was nowhere safe? The library guy – _Grantaire_.

Grantaire, who was now cradling a book in his hands as though it was an injured kitten. Enjolras was oddly struck by the tender expression, the irritation still coursing through his veins quelling somewhat at the sight.

“Books are not coasters,” Grantaire’s voice was quieter now, as though he didn’t wish to startle the text pressed between those thin fingers that Enjolras was definitely not staring at.

“If anything, not only are you abusing the book, you are doing a great disservice to the coaster by rendering it unemployed and otherwise useless.”

Right. The mug of coffee had been resting on the book. Enjolras had thoughtlessly placed it there because it was the nearest convenient resting place. Enjolras wished he could get his brain to work, wished he could say something, anything at all, instead of staring at Grantaire with his mouth open like a fish plucked from water. Finally he found his voice.

“What are you even doing here?!”

Grantaire was actually there to see Courfeyrac. They were planning to take Laigle to some little drinking establishment Grantaire had been meaning to try, and that evening seemed as good a time as any. In all honesty, when he had knocked on Courfeyrac’s door it had completely slipped his mind that Enjolras also lived there. Courf had greeted him warmly, waving him inside and beckoning him towards what Grantaire assumed was his room, presumably in the quest for jumper or shoes or whatever else Courfeyrac might need in order to leave the house.

Ok, so maybe barging into Enjolras’s room was an idea that had been ill-thought out. And perhaps it could be considered rude to enter someone’s personal space, even if the intent was to save lives. But Grantaire hadn’t been thinking about Enjolras at all when he caught a glimpse of the offending mug as he followed Courfeyrac down the hall way.

Courfeyrac seemed to think it was hilarious which, Grantaire supposed, was something. He was still laughing to himself when they left the flat ten minutes later, Enjolras having been supplied with an actual coaster.

+

When Enjolras next saw Grantaire it was at Feuilly’s place. Enjolras had been meaning to pop over in order to lend Feuilly a book on the Russian Gulag system. Somehow it had come up in conversation and Enjolras was more than happy to lend it to him.

Feuilly was, apparently, enjoying a rare day off. When he answered the door he was in a t-shirt and shorts which looked suspiciously as though they had been slept in. From the living room came the sound of angry shouts and Enjolras paused in the hallway before he recognised the familiar sound of friends playing Mario Kart.

“Fuck you, you complete bastard, with your fucking blue shell!” Bahorel bellowed, followed by a familiar cackle. Grantaire was evidently enjoying himself.

As Enjolras followed Feuilly into the room, he took a moment to examine the scene before him. Bahorel and R were on beanbags; the former was shirtless while the latter had one of Jehan’s Gauloises tucked between his teeth. He glanced up at Enjolras, nodding a greeting, before spotting the book in his hands.

“Don’t lend him your books, Feuilly, whatever you do!” he yelled over his shoulder, trying to play the game and warn Feuilly at the same time. He cursed as his kart skidded over an errant banana. “He can’t be trusted, mate, he’ll use it to prop up his wonky desk chair or something.”

Enjolras scowled before opening his mouth to correct Grantaire that, on this occasion, he was the one doing the lending. Further to that, Feuilly was welcome to do anything he liked to the book in question. He could drop it in the bath or cover it in paint or scrawl all over it in green ink if it made Feuilly happy because it was only a book at the end of the day, not an actual child.

Unlike the overgrown ten-year-old lying on the bean bag in Feuilly’s living room. Grantaire crowed in victory as he crossed the line, dodging a cushion that Bahorel threw at his head in retaliation.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Enjolras muttered, frowning. To his surprise, Feuilly let out a bark of laughter.

“Oh my gosh, Enjolras, don’t pout!” he chided gently, before motioning to the spare controller.

“Fancy a game?”

Enjolras looked round at the three friends. It was a relaxed scene and he didn’t really want to intrude. They were clearly enjoying a peaceful afternoon, Bahorel grinned up at him whilst cracking open a can of beer which he then passed to Grantaire who was staring at Enjolras, eyebrow raised in an inviting challenge. Enjolras shrugged, sitting down and taking up the controller. He ran his fingers over the buttons, letting Feuilly talk him through the basics and how to manual slide, while Grantaire made recommendations about characters and their vehicles.

What none of the people knew in the room was that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac refused to play Mario Kart with Enjolras anymore due to the fact that he was a ruthless and competitive killing machine.

But they’d soon learn.

+

“Good Afternoon, University Library,” Grantaire intoned automatically as he picked up the ringing phone. He wedged the receiver against his shoulder as he tapped in his login, waiting for the person at the other end to explain their issue.

“Oh, good afternoon, I was wondering if you might be able to help me,” a familiar voice filtered over the line, even though it was stiffer and more formal than usual which, up until that point, Grantaire hadn’t thought possible.

“Enjolras, is that you?” Grantaire paused, leaning back in his chair. There was a brief moment of silence.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras sounded a little confused, as though he had somehow forgotten that Grantaire worked in the library. Then there was what sounded like a sigh of relief before he continued.

“Thank goodness! Could you do me a massive favour? I have these library books and I know they’re due back this week but I can’t remember if it’s today or tomorrow.”

Grantaire grinned to himself as Enjolras’s normal tone of voice returned. He took down Enjolras’s student number and looked up his file. 

“Uh, there are three books here that were due back yesterday,” he advised, skimming over the screen and scrolling down. Enjolras had maxed out his check out allowance. The three overdue books had already accrued fines and Enjolras’s library activity would be frozen until they were paid off. At the other end of the phone Enjolras swore.

“Sorry,” Enjolras coughed, “obviously that wasn’t aimed at you. It’s just they don’t stamp books with the date anymore.”

Grantaire could sympathise. Everything these days was done with technology and microchips. Smart cards were scanned, books were chipped. If they could teach books to reshelve themselves then human beings would be largely superfluous on the library staff. He said as much to Enjolras, whilst using his staff privileges to alter the return date of the books in question whilst wiping the fines.

“I mean, I know technology is a wonderful thing and I’m sure it must have been a relief to get shot of index card filing,” Enjolras muttered down the phone, “but part of me really misses the thump of stamps in a library, you know?” Grantaire hummed in agreement.

“Did you work in a library, then?” he enquired, sitting back in his chair. He wasn’t sure why he asked, only that he wasn’t ready for Enjolras to hang up the phone just yet. 

“No,” Enjolras sounded slightly reticent, as though revealing too much information about himself. “But the librarian used to let me stamp my own books at our local library.” Enjolras spoke quickly, as though the words left him without his permission.

Grantaire could picture it; a young Enjolras in the library on a Saturday morning with his mother, peering over the top of the counter and stamping the books he was checking out. It was an enchanting vision.

Aware that the lull in their conversation might have gone on just a shade too long, Grantaire suddenly coughed, turning his attention back to the screen in front of him.

“Ok, there are no requests out on those, so I’ve just gone ahead and amended the return date to Friday. Also you don’t need to worry about the late fees, seeing as they’re no longer technically late.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“Oh wow… you didn’t have to…” Enjolras sputtered and Grantaire felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” he replied, perhaps a touch too brightly. And then Enjolras was gone.

Oh boy, did he have a problem.

+

“Do you ever get the feeling we’re being set up?”

Grantaire eyed the corner where his friends were currently hiding. The first weekend in May had brought with it warmer weather and longer evenings and so the windows in Bahorel’s flat were all open wide. Joly and Bossuet had insisted on dragging him out, except that both of his friends had pretty much left him to it the moment they set foot through the door. 

Similarly, he couldn’t help but notice that once Courfeyrac and Combeferre had arrived and been greeted, they had abandoned Enjolras to his fate, leaping head first into conversation with the others.

Enjolras, by his side, took a moment before the words hit home, but eventually spluttered into life.

“Why would they do that?”

Enjolras’s mind flashed back to the day in the library, to the sight of Grantaire with his arm around that girl, leaning close to whisper in her ear. Evidently not privy to Enjolras’s mind and not aware that he had been observed in such an intimate moment, Grantaire looked surprised and a little hurt.

“I appreciate that I am no oil painting, Enjolras,” he sniffed, drawing himself up and setting his shoulders somewhat defensively. “Especially not when standing next to Michelangelo’s David…”

Enjolras flushed; that wasn’t what he had meant at all.

“No,” he interrupted, because he wasn’t about to have Grantaire think that Enjolras believed himself to be above anyone, especially not with regards to anything as mundane as looks. “The other day,” Enjolras stuttered wishing his mouth would stop moving but it was too late now, “I saw you in the library….”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rose, face clearing as he seemed to understand Enjolras’s meaning but his expression quickly transformed, giving Enjolras a filthy grin. Enjolras dropped his eyes to the floor in annoyance and embarrassment.

“Why, Enjolras, your monosexual heteronormative prejudices disappoint me!” he teased and Enjolras’s cheeks burned in response.

“Floreal is, indeed, a beauteous and intelligent delight with whom I have been known to indulge in the occasional dalliance. However, she has found herself a richer and more aesthetically agreeable creature with which to waste her time. We have, however, remained friends.”

Oh. Enjolras barely had time to process the volley of information Grantaire had just flung at him before the man continued on, a hard look crossing his features as he took a deep breath.

“I’m afraid I am one of those awful bisexuals, all undecided and greedy. I break women’s hearts without a care and am terribly in denial about my obvious homosexuality,” Grantaire paused, mouth spread wide into a humourless and ugly grin. “Obvious, that is, apart from the bit where I not all my sexual partners are required to have a cock.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to instruct Grantaire not to be crude, before it occurred to him that if Grantaire had phrased it differently he would probably be correcting his gender-normative assumptions about anatomy. Besides, there were other elements to Grantaire’s little speech that Enjolras found far more troubling.

“You can’t believe that about yourself!” he exclaimed, picking his battle carefully. “The stereotypes relating to non-monosexuals are damaging enough without…”

“I was joking, Enjolras,” R ducked his head and Enjolras caught sight of a slightly vulnerable expression as it flashed across his features. “It’s a defence mechanism. You make the joke before they make the jibe.”

Enjolras considered. It wasn’t an approach he used himself but he could understand it; to always be on the attack as a form of defence. He knew from bitter experience what it was for people to make assumptions about one’s sexuality.

“Well, I’m demisexual,” Enjolras offered in reply. He waited for the usual questions that normally followed such a statement but none were forthcoming. 

“Ok,” Grantaire said at last, voice slightly unsteady. Then he cleared his throat, as if having decided on something. “I don’t really know much about that so I’m going to really try not to be an arsehole with the rest of this conversation,” he continued, giving Enjolras a small smile. “I mean, I know the amount of crap I get for being bi but at least “b” is in the acronym. So please call me out if I say something wrong.” 

Enjolras felt a flair of warmth blossom in his chest.

+

Finals week would be coming up soon. There hadn’t been a social gathering for weeks now as everyone, even Bahorel and Grantaire, knuckled down to some hard work. However, Courfeyrac sent out a text stating uncategorically that books were to be banned for a whole night and that attendance was mandatory. Proceedings had started out in a bar, with all of them cluttering up a whole corner, chattering amongst themselves; even Enjolras grateful for the evening off. Then Feuilly had stretched and rolled his shoulders, elbowing Bahorel in the side and then everyone was getting up. They all trooped back to Bahorel’s flat, the man grumbling that he couldn’t wait for the first years to move out of halls so that there would be other places to go for spontaneous gatherings.

It was in Bahorel’s apartment that the split happened once more. Grantaire was still trying to decide if it was purposeful or not. At first he thought it was just him; Joly and Laigle naturally fell together these days. Bahorel and Feuilly were often never very far from Jehan, and Grantaire still couldn’t work out the kinship there, whether it was just close friendship or something more; although he recognised it wasn’t really his place to question.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre, of course, were part of the Big Three; except that it wasn’t true these days, more often than not. Grantaire began to notice Enjolras joining him on the fringes of the group; on the outside looking in.

He was looking in right at that very moment, a small frown on his face as he looked over to where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were chatting amongst themselves. Just at that moment, Combeferre leant forward to brush a strand of hair out of Courfeyrac’s eyes. Enjolras dropped his gaze back to his glass, startling at the fact that it was still empty; presumably that was why he had left his chair in the first place.

“Hey,” Grantaire greeted gently. It had been a couple of weeks since they’d last spoken. Enjolras jumped a little to find Grantaire beside him, but returned the soft smile. A comfortable silence descended on them as Enjolras poured himself a drink before casting a glance back over his shoulder.

“We really should stop meeting like this,” Grantaire joked, reaching across Enjolras for the orange juice to mix with his vodka. Enjolras rolled his eyes good naturedly before sighing.

“Do you ever get the feeling…” Enjolras paused, chewing on his lower lip. Grantaire found he couldn’t look away. The man sighed in frustration. “I know this sounds daft and I can’t honestly believe I’m saying it…”

Grantaire forced himself to look away from the worried-red lip up to where Enjolras’s clear blue eyes were regarding him.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They must think I live in a cave or something, not to notice how they keep sequestering themselves into corners, whispering between themselves. Conversations stopping when I enter the room.” He sounded bitter. Worse than that, he sounded as though he was making a sincere effort not to be bitter.

Grantaire looked back over to where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were sitting. The scene was slightly less intimate but their body language was still exclusive, backs facing the rest of the room.

“They’ve been my best friends my whole life and I know they’re keeping something from me.” Enjolras shook his head once more, hands resting on the surface as though to steady himself.

“Maybe they’re planning your birthday?” Grantaire scrambled for something to say, wincing at his own clumsiness. Enjolras snorted, turning around to rest against the counter and taking a sip from his drink.

“It isn’t until December.”

Grantaire squirrelled away that piece of valuable information for another day. He knew where Enjolras was coming from, to a certain extent. Ok, so he hadn’t known Joly and Laigle for as long as Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been friends with Enjolras, but there was still some shared experience there.

“It sucks when your two best friends start a relationship,” he said quietly, almost as though he didn’t want Enjolras to hear. “Never sure what’s worse, Joly and Laigle having fun without me, or their terrible efforts at including me which are just painful to witness.”

Enjolras had never really stopped to think about it before. He had always considered himself to be an open and supportive friend. But then it had always been the three of them before. Maybe Courf and Ferre getting together had changed things; perhaps they were only including him to be polite but actually wanted a bit more time just the two of them. 

Grantaire, sensing that Enjolras was having something of an existential crisis, patted the man’s shoulder and left him to it.

+

Library Princess was asleep.

Ok, so Library Princess hadn’t been Library Princess for a long time now. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how it had happened exactly, but a strange sort of friendship had sprung up between them. 

It meant that Grantaire had been privileged enough to loiter in the same room and so actually get to know the strange, very mortal, bad-tempered, serious human who was prone to cluttering up and storming around the politics floor in the library. It meant that underneath the shiny exterior, Grantaire had glimpsed a thoughtful and passionate personality. He saw that Enjolras had a certain radiance; that he was far more than the pretty face he initially presented. He could, perhaps, do with laughing more, but on the occasions that Grantaire had witnessed that angelic face break into smile, the laughter that had followed was soul-warming. Grantaire dreamt of being able to make Enjolras laugh.

Fat chance.

Especially right now, with Enjolras snoring softly. Grantaire had found him at the desk Enjolras favoured, the Sleeping Beauty in the Library, utilising a politics text book as a pillow. Grantaire’s first instinct had been concern for the spine.

It seemed a shame to wake him, but wake him Grantaire must. It was closing time and Grantaire was doing his final sweep before handing the floor over to the cleaners. The security guy was waiting by the door, already locked to incoming students, ready to let Grantaire out.

It wasn’t the first time Enjolras had been kicked out of the library at closing time but this was the first time Grantaire had found the guy asleep. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise really. Not now that it was 1st June and that meant Finals just around the corner. This was to be Grantaire’s last shift for two weeks so he had the chance to complete some of his own art assignments. No point completely failing his first year, no matter what he might brag in public with his friends.

He crouched down beside Enjolras so as not to scare the guy by apparently looming over him as he slept. He wondered how long it had been since Enjolras last ate. Keeping his movements slow and non-threatening, Grantaire placed his hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder. Instantly, blue eyes flashed open and Enjolras shot up off the desk. Grantaire backed away, not wanting to freak Enjolras out any further, but Enjolras seemed to calm almost immediately, somewhat befuddled by sleep.

He yawned, stretching his shoulders, eyes blinking sleepily, and Grantaire couldn’t help but stare at the sight of a somnolent Enjolras before him with quite frankly spectacular bed head. Or was it desk head… book head? Either way, blond curls stuck up in all directions in an almost adorable fashion.

“What time is it?” Enjolras yawned against, evidently still trying to get to grips with where he was.

“Nine o’clock. Closing time,” Grantaire prompted, keeping his voice soft, not because of the library but because he feared speaking too loudly might break the spell. Enjolras groaned, shoulders dropping. He stared at the book in front of him in disgust, as though it was personally responsible for sending him to sleep. Having said that, it was a politics text book so for all Grantaire knew it might well have lulled Enjolras into a comatose state. 

“When did you last eat, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, straightening up. 

“You sound like Combeferre,” Enjolras muttered, in lieu of a reply. Grantaire snorted.

“I’ll take that for the compliment it should be, and repeat the question for good measure,” Grantaire grinned, “when did you last eat an actual proper meal?”

Enjolras yawned again, running a hand through his hair in an effort to tame it into a reasonable condition, before starting to pack up his books.

“Fine, you win. Obviously you already think you know the answer,” Enjolras sighed in resignation but when he looked up to meet Grantaire’s eyes he was smiling, however tired he was. “So where did you want to eat?”

There was an overabundance of places to choose from. Grantaire knew all the best places in Paris to eat, especially at this time of night. He chose a little place in the back streets just far enough away from the University for it to be off the radar of most students and yet still be reasonably priced and not too full of tourists. They were shown to a little table and a carafe of wine was placed on the table before Enjolras had a chance to glance at the menu.

Before Enjolras had a chance to really process the implications of that, Grantaire was murmuring an apology before requesting a carafe of water, and Enjolras tactfully pretended not to notice the look of surprise on the maitre d’s face. Instead, he perused the menu with intent, suddenly painfully aware of just how hungry he was. 

The food was excellent. It wasn’t just the food, though. Grantaire was, well, he was glowing. His expression was gentle and open. His body language was relaxed as he sat in his chair, listening to Enjolras ramble on about everything and anything. Enjolras, for his part, seemed to have found a second wind. While he may have stumbled into the restaurant somewhat exhausted, now he found himself warm and content in good company.

He opened up about his plans for the future. Having previously been quite shy about talking about the Society he hoped to start up next year, he started to talk at length about wanting to provide a safe space, not just for social issues which were, of course, absolutely paramount in importance, but also a safe queer space; something he didn’t feel was currently being addressed by the existing Societies and Clubs at the Sorbonne.

But he didn’t want it to stop with the students. University was just the beginning. So much progress had already been made in the world, even in the last fifteen years. But there was still so much to be done. However, Enjolras knew where his path would take him. He could make a difference. He fully intended to make a difference.

Grantaire was a rapt audience. He didn’t interrupt so much as interject. Mostly he let Enjolras talk, occasionally asking a pertinent question at a relevant pause. It was refreshing and somewhat liberating. He knew that Grantaire was a cynic by nature, but he wasn’t dismissive. He was actually listening to everything Enjolras said. 

“Wow,” Grantaire finally sat back, twirling his glass in his fingers. His smile held no mocking, no sarcasm. For once his expression was open and he looked all the younger for it. “You actually believe it.”

It seemed that Grantaire might almost laugh. Enjolras watched him, transfixed.

“You know, coming from anyone else,” Grantaire shook his head before downing the contents of his glass and placing it back on the table. “But you! I can see it built in to your very framework,” Grantaire stared at him intently, almost breathless. “It’s beautiful. If anyone can do it you can.”

Enjolras searched Grantaire’s face but found nothing but sincerity. Grantaire really meant it. Before he could even consider his next move, Enjolras’s mouth opened and words came pouring out.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Grantaire stared at him, frozen in place. Enjolras felt his face warm. 

“It was stupid, forget I…” Enjolras wanted to get up and run out of the restaurant, except that would be making an even bigger scene, besides which he legs didn’t feel as though they were prepared to hold his weight right at that moment.

“No,” Grantaire spluttered. “I mean, I want you to, I just don’t know why you would want to kiss me.” Brown eyes stared wildly, clouded with confusion and Enjolras wanted to make that expression disappear, never to return.

“Because I really like your brain,” Enjolras replied somewhat stupidly. He could kick himself for how he seemed to lose the power of speech around this guy but it was true. Grantaire’s mind was astounding. He was sharp-witted and silver-tongued, and Enjolras had only just worked out that what he had been fighting all this time was attraction.

Grantaire took a deep breath, having apparently finally gotten a grip on himself.

“That is quite possibly the weirdest and sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

+

Grantaire was having trouble keeping up. When the evening had begun he never in his wildest imaginings (and he had imagined a fair bit in his time) thought it would end with him and Enjolras stumbling back to Grantaire’s halls. Nobody paid them any mind as they made their way up the stairs, hand in hand, before slipping into Grantaire’s room.

But in the short amount of time he’d had to get to grips with the idea of Enjolras wanting him, of Enjolras wanting him the way that Grantaire wanted Enjolras, then he assumed that Enjolras would be the sort of person to want to take things slowly. However, judging by the way he had just been pushed up against the back of his own bedroom door, he may have made a slight miscalculation. He clearly hadn’t taken Enjolras’s passion into consideration, nor his determination.

Enjolras kissed as though he was proving a point. Their first had been shy but firm, a chaste meeting as befitted the public surroundings. Grantaire’s mind had come to a complete stop, eyes closed tightly as he let his other senses take over. He swore he could hear Enjolras’s heartbeat. There was a delicious scent as he breathed in, comprised of warm buttery skin and a hint of shampoo and Enjolras’s aftershave.

Other kisses had followed, outside the restaurant after the bill had been paid. These were more desperate and just as earnest. Now they were alone, in private. Hands were exploring, pushing aside shirts, seeking warmth and skin and it was intoxicating but Grantaire forced himself to pull back.

“Are you,” he gasped, just as Enjolras moved down his jawline to Grantaire’s pulse point, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck, and Grantaire keened in response. 

“Enjolras,” he tried again. “Is this ok?”

Enjolras looked at him with blown pupils, hands stilling briefly, but still holding onto him firmly.

“I want you,” Enjolras breathed in response. “Is that ok?”

Enjolras was enjoying letting these emotions wash over him. Now that he knew what he wanted, it all seemed so clear. Grantaire was under his skin and he wanted to take him apart. He wanted to hold his hand, wanted to know what he looked like when he woke up in the morning. He wanted so much, it actually scared him a little. But for now he concentrated on the exhilaration.

They somehow made it onto the bed, shedding clothes as they went. Grantaire was gentle and careful, happy to let Enjolras lead the way. For a long while they simply lay on Grantaire’s single bed, tangled up together, getting to know each other. Growing in confidence, Grantaire mouthed down Enjolras’s neck before skimming across his collar bone, pausing to suck a mark there before moving to the other side, where he found a mark already in situ. He licked it tentatively.

An answering moan gave him courage. Letting his hands rest at Enjolras’s deliciously slim hips, Grantaire flicked his tongue over one pert nipple before finding another mark, round like the first and blood red, just visible in the dim light of the bedroom. As with the first, Grantaire ran his tongue over it before returning his attentions to the nipples, enjoying the resulting moans and the way Enjolras arched up to meet him

As he found a third mark on Enjolras’s chest, he paused, pressing a quick kiss to Enjolras’s lips before enquiring in a light tone just how many of these marks Grantaire could expect to find and should he be keeping count. Enjolras’s expression was slightly unfocused as he took the opportunity to catch his breath.

“Eight,” he groaned, raking his hands up Grantaire’s back. “And there’s a prize if you can find them all.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but chuckle at the lightness in Enjolras’s teasing tone. He fell upon him once more, certain he could get enough of the man’s taste, determined to kiss him all over, to learn Enjolras as completely as possible.

“How typical,” he breathed, in between kisses. “It is apparently impossible for you to be ordinary in any kind of way.” Grantaire’s mouth ghosted lower, down Enjolras’s sternum and over his belly towards his navel, making the man squirm beneath him. “For myself, I have only one birth mark – an ugly blackened symbol of my withered soul.”

Just as he reached Enjolras’s waist, he nipped at the fabric of the man’s skinny jeans before sitting back on his heels, bringing up his right hand as though about to make a pledge of some sort. Enjolras watched him with amusement. After a moment, Grantaire removed his hand to reveal the solitary mark; a black circle about a centimetre in diameter right over his heart.

Struck by the sight, Enjolras reached up, letting his index finger rest over the mark there for a moment before pulling Grantaire back down for another kiss. They got lost in each other for a few more moments before Grantaire leaned back, resting their foreheads together.

“Even your blemishes are perfect,” he muttered against Enjolras’s lips. 

There was no more talking after that. They moved together in the restrictive space of the bed, becoming more heated, more insistent. When they shed the last of their clothes, they gasped and breathed and groaned together. Grantaire licked his hand before making a fist round Enjolras’s cock, Enjolras following suit. It was paradoxically tentative and desperate. Grantaire was drunk on the sensation of being here with Enjolras, of having Enjolras gasping in his bed as he came. He followed not too long after, fucking Enjolras’s hand before moaning his name unashamedly loudly. Let the whole building hear, for all he cared. There was only that moment; there was only Enjolras.

Falling asleep that night, both Enjolras and Grantaire were entirely content, sated and happy with the way the world turned beneath them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my usual apologies for leaving this fic so long. I want to thank you all for your kudos, your subscriptions and your lovely comments. They are absolute chocolate in the face of writers-block dementors, I assure you.
> 
> It's been a period of complete block for me. All my fics have been sitting around even though I have chapters in various states of completion and I know where they're all going and I have very good intentions (sure I meant well, but look at what "well meant" did...)
> 
> No books were harmed in the making of this chapter.
> 
> I'm sorry if you were hoping that they would remember mid-coitus... :-p


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Good things didn’t happen to Grantaire._
> 
> The morning after the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows dust off keyboard* 
> 
> This is un-beta'd (unless spouses count?) so all errors are mine. I don't think any additional tags are warranted but if anyone would like me to tag something please let me know.

Good things didn’t happen to Grantaire. They just didn’t.

Except that, apparently Grantaire really needed to take stock of his life and re-evaluate. Firstly, he had friends; proper, actual friends. People in whose company he was comfortable, where friendship was easy. They were _his_ friends as well, not just friends of someone he knew. So while he might not necessarily understand how so many people wormed their way into his life, he wasn’t complaining.

He had a job, surprisingly enough; one that he enjoyed and that he wasn’t likely to get fired from any time soon which was a first. Also, he didn’t appear to be failing his degree, a fact that was nothing short of astonishing. All things considered, it was pretty rosy in the usually thorny and unkempt bewilderness that passed for Grantaire’s metaphorical garden of life.

But he wasn’t thinking of his job or his friends when he opened his eyes that morning. Enjolras was still asleep, despite being squished between Grantaire and the wall which couldn’t have been comfortable. In the dim light filtering through the thin curtains, Grantaire could just about make out two of Enjolras’s birthmarks on his chest and collarbone, as well as some of the marks Grantaire had left himself last night.

Last night.

Something warm and thrilling glowed in Grantaire’s chest. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be there, right at that moment, with Enjolras in his bed. It was a precious moment and one he intended to commit to memory, one that he needed to press in his brain permanently.

Enjolras was breathing softly, head pillowed on his arm, blond curls messy from sleep. Grantaire couldn’t take his eyes from him. He wanted nothing more than to kiss Enjolras’s nose. Or perhaps his cheek. Maybe those cherry-red lips. Instead he held his breath, terrified of breaking the spell. 

But all Sleeping Beauties must wake; although Grantaire quashed that image as he thought it, dismissing it as being far too ridiculous, even for him. Enjolras frowned first, eyes scrunching tight as he inhaled sharply before trying to roll over, somewhat hampered by the wall in his way.

“Morning, sunshine,” Grantaire murmured, watching spell-bound as Enjolras cracked open his eyes and then yawned, stretching his spine in the enclosed space. Then something beautiful happened; Enjolras smiled.

He looked up at Grantaire through long lashes, smiling brilliantly, before snuggling closer and burrowing his face into Grantaire’s shoulder, one arm snaking across Grantaire’s side to pull them together. Grantaire felt Enjolras kiss his neck; then his jaw. He kissed back when Enjolras brushed soft lips against his own.

It was such bliss, to be allowed to run his hands over Enjolras’s warm skin. Grantaire let his fingers linger and tease across Enjolras’s navel before dipping lower but not too low, following Enjolras’s lead. Grantaire couldn’t help but groan at the tug of hands in his hair, wanting to get lost in the sensations flooding his system.

They rocked against each other, panting and hard. Grantaire tried to find breath, to seek permission, showing his intention by kissing down Enjolras’s body. He paused at the soft downy skin above Enjolras’s hips, looking up at Enjolras to be absolutely sure that the man was on board and comfortable with what Grantaire was about to do. He was rewarded by Enjolras scrunching his eyes closed, throwing his head back with a groan, before his wrecked voice muttered the words Grantaire needed to hear. When Grantaire bent his head to lick up the underside of Enjolras’s cock before teasing across the head, he felt Enjolras’s hands grip tight to his shoulders. He hummed happily at the sharp bite of Enjolras’s nails before getting lost in his task.

Grantaire’s hands moved across Enjolras’s thighs, one hand grasping the base of Enjolras’s cock, moving in tandem with Grantaire’s mouth. He wanted Enjolras to be free to thrust into his mouth should he so wish. He wanted to wring every possible sound from the beautiful god in his bed. Enjolras’s chest was heaving, mouth in a round O of pleasure as he pressed his head into Grantaire’s pillow.

The sweetest sound in the whole world, as far as Grantaire was concerned, was the way Enjolras’s lips framed his name at orgasm. He had given Grantaire plenty of warning, tugging on his hair and whining high in his throat. 

Good things didn’t happen to Grantaire, but as Enjolras pulled Grantaire up and into his arms to kiss him while wrapping his hands round Grantaire’s cock, Grantaire considered that maybe the fates had been feeling benevolent for once.

+

Joly was in the kitchen when he heard R’s bedroom door creak open down the corridor. He stuck his head round the kitchen door in the full expectation of seeing his flatmate in the hallway, intending to make an offer of coffee, or maybe a reiteration of his “play safe” speech since, judging by the noises filtering through the walls, R had not spent last night alone. 

What he absolutely had not expected was to see a familiar blond head making a swift exit from the flat. Joly was still staring at the closed door when R eventually stepped into view.

“You ok, there, Jollly?” Grantaire trilled, voice light, even if it was a little rough. Joly looked at him, really looked at him, starting with the scruffy bedhead and travelling down past the blatant red mark on his neck to his shoulders and his arms, well sculpted from boxing. 

Joly wasn’t ok, not in any sense of the word. His mind was still reeling from having seen Enjolras, of all people, leaving Grantaire’s bedroom. At the same time he couldn’t help but stare at the man standing before him, shirtless and bare-footed in the hallway. Joly and Grantaire had been sharing space for the entire academic year but Joly felt as though he was seeing his friend for the first time. His gaze travelled down the man’s torso, from his broad shoulders to his soft belly, before jerking back up to small black mark on his chest.

“What’s that!?” he exclaimed, raising his hand to point at what, to his 19th century mind, looked suspiciously similar to one of the constellation of bullet holes on Jean Prouvaire’s chest.

“Ah, he speaks!” Grantaire, who up until that moment had been frowning slightly at Joly’s silence, now spread his arms wide, grinning at his flatmate. “Speak again, bright angel.”

Joly wasn’t sure where to begin. There just wasn’t a manual for this sort of crisis. 

“Did you sleep with Enjolras?” he found the question was out of his mouth before he had really decided that it was where he wished to begin. Still, it was a coherent question which was a start. Joly was actually quite proud that his vocal volume had come right down and his tone wasn’t quite as incredulous as it could have been. One could almost argue that it was a perfectly reasonable tone, not at all interrogative or aggressive. 

Additionally, a strange sort of calm appeared to be descending upon him. His heart was no longer thumping painfully in his chest which had to be a good thing, surely. Unless, of course, he was going into shock. Instinctively, the fingers of his right hand closed around his left wrist, feeling for the gentle hum of his pulse proving once and for all that his heart was doing its job.

“The usual custom, dear Joly,” R’s eyebrows were somewhere around his hairline as he started forward, edging past his flatmate to the cupboard and retrieving a mug, “is to wish someone a good morning and pass the time of day casually before leaping in with such personal questions.”

To this, Joly said nothing even though Grantaire gave him ample opportunity to apologise. Grantaire sighed, regretting leaving his bed. 

He had been unable to convince Enjolras to stay; apparently incredible morning sex didn’t negate the fact that there were essays to be written and lectures to attend. Grantaire had tried his very best to convince Enjolras with sweet kisses, and it had worked for about ten minutes, the pair of them wrapped up together and moving and rolling. But then Enjolras had somehow rolled them so that R found himself by the wall at which point, with a final firm kiss, Enjolras had laughed before making good his escape. It had been a cunning plan, beautifully executed and R couldn’t help but be impressed.

Of course he should have expected the third degree from his unbelievably nosey friends. This was the first time in months, since really getting to know Enjolras and the herd of friends that came with him, that he had brought someone home. But last night was his; Enjolras opening up to him and trusting him, the way he had looked at Grantaire that morning with a soft smile and kissed-red lips; all of that was for him and him alone. 

“To answer your questions in turn,” R cleared his throat as he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, “’that’ is a birthmark. And really, Joly, if you don’t know what one of those is by the end of your first year of your medical degree then I would be extremely concerned about your curriculum. Rest assured I have had it my whole life. It has not increased or decreased in size, nor does it itch or do anything else uncanny other than simply exist there on my body, morning and night. Should it do anything remotely interesting or magical or different to doing ‘nothing at all’ you shall be the first to know.”

Joly closed his mouth; it had been hanging open ever since R had stepped into the hallway, but now his jaw clacked shut with a certain air of determination, as though he was finally attempting to get a grip on himself. A soft blush rose in his cheeks, as though he had suddenly remembered that pointing out blemishes on other people was generally frowned upon in polite society but R didn’t really mind. Joly was his friend and sometimes his brilliant medical mind didn’t operate on the same social niceties as other people and usually R loved him for that. 

“Secondly, I have absolutely no comment to make about Enjolras or his sleeping arrangements in relation to my sleeping arrangements. Though I might add that I don’t know whether to be amused or insulted by your incredulous tone.”

Joly felt as though his brain was coming back online. He ran a critical eye over the man standing before him, loose-limbed and relaxed and wearing the grin of a cat that had recently caught the canary he had patiently been stalking. Nothing about the picture before him spoke of someone who had recently regained their 19th century memories. 

Joly’s eyes flicked back to the birth mark. They all had them; it was one of the first common factors that had come to light; from Bahorel’s bayonet wound to the mark on Courfeyrac’s neck, each of them bore the echo of that final fatal blow. And now a further piece of the puzzle stood before him.

Realising that Grantaire was waiting for him to say something, Joly took a deep breath and forced himself to remember that this was the 21st century and that R would have absolutely no idea why the concept of him and Enjolras being together was so utterly astounding. He apologised, and really he did mean it because of course it was rude; it would be rude whether or not R had spent a previous lifetime pining for the man that had apparently just done the walk of shame out of his bedroom.

Grantaire smiled at his apology, shrugging his shoulders as he drained his mug. The conversation moved on to simpler, safer topics; finals, moving into their new homes, plans for an end-of-exams party which Courfeyrac was organising. Joly negotiated it on autopilot before excusing himself because he had a lunch date with Bossuet.

“With who?!” R’s brow crinkled in confusion and Joly could have slapped himself for letting his boyfriend’s nickname slip. There was an extra stab of pain because it had been Grantaire who had bestowed that name upon Laigle in the first place. For his friend to stand there now, without the slightest trace of recognition on his face, was more than Joly could bear.

+

“Grantaire slept with Enjolras,”

Bossuet actually choked on his drink. One moment he had peacefully been sipping from his coffee as Jehan read out excerpts from a history book he had found that mentioned the June Rebellion – _their_ Rebellion – and then Joly had come storming through the door, stick tapping angrily against the flagstone floor as he attempted to move as fast as his leg would allow, not waiting to greet or sit down before sharing his news.

Jehan banged Bossuet’s back while Feuilly moved some mugs out of harm’s way to prevent them being accidentally knocked over. A hubbub of noise took over the table as several voices at once asked Joly what on earth he meant and how he could possibly know.

Joly hadn’t realised just how many of their friends had gathered for what Courfeyrac had taken to calling “Barricade Brunch” in English. Sometimes it was just two or three of them, depending on who had work or lectures or essay deadlines, but today it was apparently everyone. And now everyone was looking to him with a variety of expressions. Bahorel looked surprised with a hint of amusement, though possibly that had been caused by Joly’s dramatic entrance. Prouvaire was in possession of a pleased yet dreamy smile. Feuilly’s forehead was creased in a frown, as though not entirely sure why such a thing had resulted in a spluttering Bossuet and coffee requiring rescue. Courfeyrac and Combeferre, meanwhile, were staring at each other with matching expressions of apprehension.

“Are they all right?” Combeferre’s voice was sharp and he rose to his feet, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair and signalling Courfeyrac to do the same. He had gone from feeling relaxed to concerned in a matter of seconds, catching hold of Joly’s sense of urgency and reaching the worst possible conclusion; Enjolras must have remembered. 

He cursed himself for not texting or ringing his best friend sooner. He knew Enjolras hadn’t come home last night, and Enjolras had texted him to say not to expect him back but that he was safe at Joly, Laigle and Grantaire’s flat. He knew that Enjolras and Grantaire had been getting closer, getting to know each other better in a century that was far more forgiving on both their personalities and allowed their blossoming friendship to flourish, and of course he had approved; nothing made him happier than to see his friends happy in their turn.

But all those happy feelings evaporated at the thought of Enjolras remembering everything that had happened and his being alone. 

“I saw R and he’s fine, same as always,” Joly supplied, sinking down into the chair next to Bossuet and taking his boyfriend’s hand to give it a squeeze. “But Enjolras left before I had a chance to speak with him.”

Combeferre shared another meaningful look with Courfeyrac; they should go at once. For all they knew, Enjolras was on the floor of their bathroom back at their halls right at that moment and in need of their help and comfort. But just as they made to go, Joly called out to him once more.

“He has a mark, Ferre, I saw it.” Joly tapped his chest, right over his heart. That stopped Combeferre in his tracks.

“You’re sure?” he clarified, even though he knew Joly would not be careless about this. Joly nodded.

“A single black mark, like one of Jehan’s.”

Combeferre nodded. It was still a mystery to him how Grantaire fitted in to all of this, but at least now it seemed as though he was a part of it after all; a bullet must have left that mark. Combeferre would worry about the finer details of that later; for now he desperately wanted to find his friend.

+

Enjolras was glowing. It was clichéd to think so, he knew, but his whole body was humming with a sense of warmth and happiness. The halls were empty when he had returned but that was more than fine. He had showered and changed his clothes, and it was only as he stuffed a last book in his bag ready for his lecture, that he heard the door to the hall flat slam and a familiar voice call out his name.

“Enjolras!”

It was Combeferre’s voice but he sounded upset about something. Enjolras opened his bedroom door to greet him and was nearly flattened by both of his best friends barging into his room. Suddenly there were hands on his shoulders, holding him at arm’s length so he could be examined.

“Are you all right?”

For a moment Enjolras worried that Combeferre had not got his message from the night before and so had been out searching for him. Certainly that would explain the undisguised panic on both Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s faces.

He rushed to reassure them, circling his hands round Combeferre’s wrists, communicating with the warmth of his touch that he was very much there and ok. With that, his friend exhaled slowly, apparently relieved, but there was the flash of something else that Enjolras couldn’t quite translate. Then they were all pulling each other into a hug and Enjolras smiled. Even if he didn’t fully understand what was going on, he understood the love and concern of his friends and he felt thankful for it. Finally they broke apart, sharing sheepish smiles.

“Didn’t you get my message last night?” Enjolras fished his phone out of his pocket to check his outbox in case the text hadn’t sent correctly, but his phone showed the message as both delivered and read. He looked up at his friends in confusion.

Combeferre’s initial panic about Enjolras being alone and confused and everything else swiftly evaporated into a new sort of alarm. Enjolras was still his same old 21st century self. He looked a little tired, perhaps, and his hair was still damp from his shower but he was clearly relaxed and happy, if slightly befuddled by what was happening.

“What’s going on?”

Enjolras’s expression was growing cloudy and Combeferre could sense alarm bells ringing distantly. He had been so sure and certain when Joly had come into the coffee shop that it had finally happened, that Enjolras remembered, that he was totally unprepared for this conversation and he briefly regretted not trying to call ahead. His only concern had been to get home and he knew that part of the reason for his uncharacteristically rash behaviour was that he desperately wanted Enjolras to remember. He wanted his friend back.

Enjolras was frowning now, waiting for a response. Combeferre knew he needed to tread carefully here. Enjolras was extremely sensitive about his private life; being a homoromantic demisexual had led to more than one argument with others about apparently having to justify his sexuality, as well as the complaint about society being far too invested in the sexual activities of others. He couldn’t possibly explain that he and Courfeyrac were not concerned with who Enjolras slept with, only whether or not his relationship with R had resulted in his memories coming back.

“We, well,” Combeferre scrambled to come up with a plausible explanation for why he and Courfeyrac were in such a state of concern that didn’t involve apparent reincarnation or repressed memories, and certainly didn’t involve their sudden interest in Enjolras’s private life, when Courfeyrac decided to open his mouth.

“Well, Joly told us that you slept with R, so we wanted to –”

Combeferre closed his eyes ever so briefly just as Enjolras snapped, interrupting Courfeyrac in full flow.

“Joly said what?!” 

Poor Courfeyrac. Poor, darling Courfeyrac. He never, ever spoke maliciously but sometimes truths came tumbling out of his mouth at the most inopportune times. Combeferre turned his paint-stripping glare on his boyfriend but the damage was done.

Of course Enjolras exploded. Combeferre only caught a few words of it as Enjolras grabbed his keys and stormed towards the door, spitting pure fury about having had his trust betrayed in the worst possible way. Combeferre called out to him, making as though to follow him but Enjolras only snarled in response, face clouded with anger, stopping Combeferre in his tracks.

“No, Combeferre,” Enjolras visibly made an effort to temper his rage, “just let me go sort this out.” 

+

In the kitchen, humming to himself softly, Grantaire was putting together some lunch. It had been a delightfully unproductive morning so far. He wasn’t due in the library for a shift until this afternoon so after his thoroughly confusing conversation with Joly that morning, he had returned to his bed with the full intention of snoozing the morning away.

Except that instead he had found himself reaching for his sketch book and pencils, but he didn’t draw Enjolras. Instead he drew from memory the desk in the library, with Enjolras’s coat and bag on the chair and a pile of books. He was deliberate about the details of each of the spines and was just outlining some shelves in the background when he heard the door to the flat bang, signalling Joly and Bossuet’s return. Shortly after that his stomach had rumbled, reminding him that eating was an actual thing that humans should do and so he had set out in search of some lunch.

The fridge held few culinary delights, but there was a packet of instant noodles in the cupboard. R wasn’t entirely sure they counted as food but they were certainly carbohydrate and so would prove sufficient for now. All in all he was feeling rather content with the world.

Right at the moment, the hall flat door banged open again and footsteps pounded down the hallway. When Grantaire turned, it was to be confronted with Enjolras, standing tall and furious. Grantaire was struck dumb in the face of such a sudden appearance, although a small part of his mind couldn’t help but notice how stunningly beautiful Enjolras looked in that moment, even with his mouth drawn in anger.

Each word was sharp like a blow and designed to be fatal as they found their mark. Enjolras wasn’t even shouting that loudly, it was just cold fury washing over Grantaire as he was eviscerated and consumed.

“The very worst thing,” Enjolras spat, pausing in his tirade to draw in a ragged breath, and it was as though Grantaire’s ears had suddenly popped and each word was now as clear as cold water, “the very worst thing is that I trusted you. I believed you. I thought you were different.”

Grantaire could only stare as he burned. How could he possibly defend himself?

“You told everyone. How long did you wait? Had the door swung shut behind me before you were bragging to Joly?”

Grantaire’s world was crumbling round his ears. Was this the same man who had been so happy in his bed just hours before? The world had shifted sharply on its axis and the ground beneath his feet had disappeared completely, but he was happy to fall. He had known all along that he was not worthy of Enjolras’s gaze and he had been foolish to fly so close to the sun.

“Well I hope it was worth it because it was the first, last and only time.”

With a final huff, Enjolras deflated, the fight pouring out of him as his anger vanished, to be replaced by something far worse. The last look on his face as he marched out of the door was one of pure disappointment.

Grantaire felt raw and stripped to the bone. He reached out blindly behind him to grasp the counter so that he might ground himself while he rediscovered his centre of gravity. The whole exchange could not have lasted more than a few minutes, from the time Enjolras had stormed in to when he had stalked out with nothing but contempt and disenchantment for the man he left behind.

In the silence of the kitchen, R became aware of Joly and Bossuet hovering nearby looking horrified and appalled. 

“What the fuck, guys?” Grantaire was amazed that his voice worked. If his voice worked then there must be a mouth and lungs and oxygenated blood which meant there was a chance that he was actually a man rather than pieces scattered on the wind.

“You’re talking about my sex life to people we barely know? Complete strangers?” He looked at his friends with complete incomprehension. What gave them the right to do this? He was his own person and he had successfully survived nearly twenty years on this earth without their interference in his private affairs and he would continue to do so if the need arose. 

Enjolras was important to him. What they’d had together had been precious and delicate. It had barely begun to take tentative steps to what might have actually been a relationship and now it lay in ruins with only the echo of a slammed door to show for it.

“R, I’m so…” Joly tried to apologise, but Grantaire silenced him, raising his hand, because he didn’t want to hear it.

“I really, really don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello angst my old friend.
> 
> Now, just to be absolutely clear here - all our favourite barricade boys are not gossiping idly behind Enjolras and R's back - and certainly no one intended to cause a row. The whole process of remembering is no fun at all and no one wants either Enjolras or R to go through that alone. However, misunderstandings will happen and we all know Enjolras is more than capable or being terrible - especially when he believes he is in the right.
> 
> My usual apologies for taking such a ridiculously long time to deliver this. I feel like I've resurfaced after a long sleep. Many thanks to Sarah and Claire for listening to my inane babble over the past few months.
> 
> Also thank you for your endless patience and your kind comments.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There were still clothes and things in Grantaire’s drawers, but his satchel, sketchbooks and mobile phone were missing. Even worse was the hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table.
> 
>  _I need some space_ "
> 
> The aftermath of the row between Enjolras and Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey - this chapter didn't take me six months - wahoo!
> 
> Ok so there's nothing specific to be tagged here, although according to my proof-readers, you might want to have kittens and blankets on stand-by.
> 
> (obviously if anyone does want something tagged please let me know)

When Jehan peered through the curtains of Bahorel’s bedroom window sometime after dawn on 5th June he was unsurprised to find it raining. Down in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Parisian life continued as it always had for countless years. Despite the hour her people scurried from place to place on some important errand or other, pausing under café awnings to avoid the summer shower. Paris had always been an early riser. Prouvaire couldn’t help but shiver, an empty sense of melancholy consuming him.

Behind him Bahorel groaned, disturbed by the muted grey light filtering through the window.

“Come back to bed, Prouvaire,” he grumbled sleepily, throwing an arm across his eyes. At some point in the night he had kicked away his share of the sheets. On the other side of the bed, Feuilly was snoring softly, lying on his front with face smushed into the pillow, while Bahorel was stretched out on his back, leaving a perfect Jehan-shaped gap between them. Jehan left the window and returned to the welcoming warmth between the two men.

“Let’s stay here, today,” Jehan whispered into Bahorel’s neck, reaching behind him to take Feuilly’s wrist so that he might pull the man’s arm over his waist. “I just want to drown here between you.”

Bahorel held him tightly. Feuilly, still sleeping and yet somehow aware enough of the distressed youth in his bed, shuffled over so that he was pressed tight to Jehan’s back, his face pressed to one skinny shoulder.

Even before the row between Enjolras and Grantaire, the atmosphere had been building towards today. Feuilly had told his boss that he wasn’t coming to work under any circumstances and that he would quit if anyone so much as rang him for his opinion on the weather. Bahorel and Jehan had both been relieved to receive their exam schedules and see the day left blank. They had decided it would be the perfect duvet day between the three of them.

Well, five of them. Because after the great debacle three days before involving the last two of their friends still stuck in the darkness of the modern day, Bossuet had texted Bahorel asking if he and Joly could come over for some movies.

Bossuet had explained that, in the immediate aftermath of the dreadful scene in the kitchen, Joly had rushed over to Enjolras’s in an attempt to set the record straight. By all accounts it had been a futile effort. Joly had stood at Enjolras’s door for half an hour telling him that he was so sorry, that Grantaire had never said a word to him about anything and that if Enjolras was going to yell at anyone it should be him. But he was met with far worse than yelling; nothing but silence came through the door.

Combeferre had placed a consoling hand on Joly’s shoulder before leading him away from Enjolras’s unfriendly door; there was really nothing more to be done. It wasn’t as if they could explain the real reason behind their concern; that on top of the strange and complex history between Enjolras and Grantaire, there was also the fear of either one of them being alone when they remembered. No one wanted that to happen; Enjolras and R both deserved better.

So Bossuet had walked Joly back home, only to find their halls empty, and Joly had broken down completely. There were still clothes and things in Grantaire’s drawers, but his satchel, sketchbooks and mobile phone were missing. Even worse was the hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table.

_I need some space_

A strange sort of purgatory had descended. Grantaire was missing and Enjolras had locked himself in his room. On top of all that, it was finals week, not to mention the approach of a certain anniversary that no one wanted to mention out loud.

So of course Bahorel wasn’t about to refuse them, leave them out in the cold and sitting in their halls of residence feeling miserable and worried sick about their missing compatriot. Feuilly and Jehan were also in agreement; of course Joly and Bossuet should come over for movies.

By lunch time, five became eight. Feuilly was insisting that food was an actual thing that needed to happen and so was in the kitchen knocking together something that was producing the most delicious smells, while Prouvaire took a shower. Bahorel was feeling lazy, relaxing in bed having been thoroughly ravished by the two men sharing his bed. He had vague ideas of joining Prouvaire in the shower, or maybe going into the kitchen, wrapping his arms round Feuilly and lifting him onto the nearest kitchen surface…

Bahorel’s decidedly pleasant trail of thought was disturbed by his phone buzzing. 

_Combeferre: Are you guys doing anything today?_

It turned out that there were limits to Combeferre’s patience when it came to self-indulgent wallowing and being given the silent treatment, and those limits had been reached. Courfeyrac was out taking an exam, leaving Combeferre to continue with the task of trying to coax Enjolras from his room. He presumed Enjolras must have left his room at some point for food at the very least, but Enjolras was evidently waiting for them to leave or sleep in order to do so.

Having grown tired of talking to a door, Combeferre had decided that enough was enough. Drastic action was required.

Using the set of screwdrivers he kept for repairing the hinges on his glasses, he was determined to demonstrate that he was completely serious about his threat to break into Enjolras’s room if he really had to. Not that he knew how to pick a lock but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. Mercifully, Combeferre was spared the embarrassment when, after a few moments of making noises that evidently sounded convincing, Enjolras opened his door voluntarily.

Enjolras looked awful. His pale skin was now grey and translucent, apart from the dark shadows under his eyes, and his golden locks were lank and unwashed. He was wearing one of Courfeyrac’s t-shirts and a pair of shorts, and he looked completely miserable. From his position on the floor, Combeferre sighed heavily before pulling himself to his feet.

“Oh, Enjolras,” he exhaled, pulling his best friend into a hug because Enjolras never gave his heart easily. Whatever had sprung up between him and Grantaire was something Enjolras had been deeply invested in. Grantaire, too, judging by his disappearing act. What a mess.

Enjolras gave a sharp shuddering breath, and Combeferre felt him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like an apology into his shoulder. There was nothing to be done other than lead his zombie-like friend into the kitchen, flicking the switch on the kettle and ignoring Enjolras’s grimace. He may hate instant coffee but it was all that was on offer right now. Combeferre also put two slices of bread in the toaster for good measure. 

Enjolras sat quietly on a chair, still saying nothing and chewing at his lip, eyes downcast. He warmed his hands on the mug that Combeferre passed to him, and when Ferre set a plate of hot buttered toast down in front of him, Enjolras obediently picked up a slice and began to chew. Combeferre waited, comfortable in the silence, knowing that Enjolras was building up to something. He didn’t have to wait long. Enjolras took a deep shuddering breath before looking up, a sad determination in his eyes.

“I really like him, Ferre,” he said, voice bitter. “And now I’ve really fucked up.”

Combeferre let Enjolras finish his toast in peace before compelling the man to take a shower. Then he sat for a while, drumming his fingers on the table before picking up his phone. The past few days had been hard, with everything going on between Enjolras and Grantaire, but that didn’t mean he had forgotten what day it was. 

He and Courfeyrac had initially planned to spend the evening together, just them, curled up in either one of their beds and watch something on the laptop; something fluffy and 21st century that had nothing to do with barricades or fighting. But now that the day had arrived, he couldn’t very well leave Enjolras in this state. More than that, he wanted some company. Courfeyrac was wonderful, the best, but Combeferre suddenly wanted to see everyone. He wanted to shake their hands and bump their shoulders, see the lights of their eyes for himself.

It felt like less than a minute since sending his text to Bahorel before his phone was ringing. A ridiculous sense of relief flooded him at the sound of his friend’s voice. The first thing Bahorel asked was about Enjolras, an edge to his voice that Combeferre understood completely. Having given all the reassurances he could – that Enjolras was fine, that he had finally emerged but not doing all that brilliantly – Bahorel returned the favour, advising that there was still no news on Grantaire. An uneasy silence settled between them. It was one thing to have Enjolras holed up – at least they knew where he was and could keep an eye on him – but having Grantaire in the wind was much worse.

Down the phone, Bahorel let out a sigh.

“Do you think he would come here if you asked him?”

+

As he entered Bahorel’s living room, observing the scramble to take ownership of beanbags and cushions while a friendly argument broke out over what to watch first, Combeferre considered that maybe they should have planned this from the start. He couldn’t think of anywhere else he would rather be; all his friends alive and well and together. 

Well, nearly all of them.

It felt wrong without R. His voice was noticeably absent from the chatter as the room settled. Joly and Bossuet were curled up on a beanbag, the former armed with a box of tissues due to a sudden summer cold, the latter battling to open a bag of sweets before it inevitably exploded, showering them both in gummi bears.

Enjolras was in the arm chair wrapped in a blanket. There hadn’t been any awkwardness when he’d walked in, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, Bahorel greeting him with a clap on the back. Feuilly gave him a friendly nod from where he was pouring drinks in the kitchen, while Jehan wrapped him in a hug before dragging him through to the living room. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had kept a respectful distance as Joly limped over, evidently suffering from the rainstorm outside. Whatever words were spoken between them they kept them to themselves, but hugs were exchanged as they made their peace. 

The mood was noticeably subdued. Combeferre was glad to feel Courfeyrac’s steady weight against him, and he couldn’t help but run his hand through Courf’s hair, petting him like an overgrown cat. Not that Courfeyrac appeared to be complaining, leaning into Combeferre’s touch. By the end of the second film, Joly was asleep, snoring softly against Bossuet’s coat, while Jehan had situated himself in such a way that his head was in Feuilly’s lap while Bahorel rubbed his feet.

Combeferre looked over to Enjolras, surprised to find his friend looking right back, face reflected in the flickering glow of the TV. His friend inclined his head, indicating the kitchen, before slowing unfurling himself out of the arm chair. Courfeyrac grumbled quietly when Combeferre moved to do the same. Smiling fondly, Combeferre brushed a brief kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead before promising to return soon.

To his surprise, Enjolras was rifling through the cupboards when Combeferre stepped into the kitchen. 

“Do you know if they have any paracetamol? I have such a headache,” Enjolras complained, opening and closing a few more cupboard doors. Instinctively, Combeferre patted his own pockets before remembering that he might have some in his coat.

Come to think of it, Enjolras didn’t look at all well. Combeferre had initially put it down to his being locked in his bedroom for nearly three days, but there was a certain redness about his eyes that had not been caused by tears. He pressed a hand to Enjolras’s forehead, smiling at the soft sigh Enjolras gave as he leaned into his friend’s touch.

“Well you’re warm but not burning up,” he confirmed, frowning slightly. “You should have said if you weren’t feeling well enough to come.”

Enjolras shook his head, and then grimaced as though remembering that headaches and head shaking were not a good mix. 

He wasn’t feeling ill, exactly, just strange; as though his body didn’t quite fit anymore. He had never been drunk but he imagined that this must be similar to the sensation, as though the world was set at an angle and he couldn’t help but stagger to the right or the left in an effort to equal his balance. 

But he’d needed to get out. He wanted to apologise to Joly for not taking the man’s peace offerings with more grace. He’d needed to apologise to everyone else for so spectacularly losing his temper when he hadn’t done anything like that in a long time. He really _really_ needed to apologise to Grantaire in person, especially as he hadn’t answered any of Enjolras’s texts or calls, which Enjolras couldn’t really blame him for. He had hoped that he might turn up tonight and was dismayed to learn that no one had seen him since the row; something else for him to feel mortified about. While everyone else had settled down to watch the film, he had started to formulate a list in his head of places to look, wondering how long someone had to be gone before you could report them missing and whether it would even count in this situation as they had no reason to believe that any harm might have come to Grantaire.

But he wasn’t here and that was wrong, and the more Enjolras thought about it the more his head ached.

Not for the first time in their friendship, Enjolras found himself thanking his lucky stars for Combeferre and his magic pockets which seemed to contain everything Enjolras ever needed from pens to painkillers. He gratefully swallowed back two pills with some water and then attempted to give Combeferre a reassuring smile, not entirely sure that he was successful. Combeferre reached over to give Enjolras’s arm a squeeze, a comforting gesture that Enjolras couldn’t help be grateful for, before they both returned to watch the rest of the movie. 

It was gone midnight when Enjolras became aware of noise and movement in the room around him. A silent decision had been made at some point for a third movie to be put on, Finding Nemo winning the vote, and then blankets and duvets were shared out. The last thing Enjolras remembered was the race through the jellyfish scene, and now the menu screen played on repeat, the soothing tones of the sea and soft music keeping everyone soundly asleep.

It took a moment for Enjolras to realise someone was knocking on the apartment door which was presumably the cause of Bahorel grumbling as he gently lifted Jehan’s legs from his lap so he could go answer it. Enjolras was warm and comfortable. His head still ached, right across his forehead and he was aware of a vague unsettled sensation in his stomach; not quite nausea, but certainly discomfort. He sighed to himself, wishing he was back in his own bed.

+

Grantaire shivered, wishing he had thought to grab a coat when he had left his halls three days before. Usually a jumper in June would have been more than adequate, but the damp weather had taken him by surprise.

He hadn’t meant to stay away so long, or stay out of touch without at least making contact to tell his friends he was ok. His phone battery had died long ago and, of course, Floreal didn’t have a matching charger. 

When he’d turned up on her doorstep, face blank and needing a hug and a sleep and no questions asked, she’d waived him towards her sofa and broken open a bottle of wine. Floreal was nice like that. He had only meant it to be a one night thing, but when it actually came to going back – back to his room where he’d have to change his bed sheets or else put up with the light scent of Enjolras, and honestly he wasn’t sure what was worse at this point; back to Joly who he wasn’t angry with anymore, not really, he just felt confused and overwhelmed and so very tired; back to the kitchen where Enjolras had deconstructed him so completely – well, Floreal’s sofa was easier, less judgemental.

He’d dutifully taken his one and only exam that week on the second day, but again found his feet refusing to lead him back to his halls. He wondered if he could wait out the rest of the term on her sofa, before remembering that he had agreed to move into some student digs with Laigle and Joly, that they were due to move in just over a week. Life really knew how to kick him when he was down.

As a final insult, the Banker Boyfriend turned up as a surprise late on the fourth night. Grantaire wasn’t that much of an arsehole; he saw Floreal actually pause and consider for a moment whether she should tell Armand (or Antonio or whoever the fuck he was), to come back tomorrow because she was busy with a friend in need right now and something inside him just snapped. Bless Floreal, but she didn’t need a vagrant student cluttering up her sofa, and so he’d bid them both adieu and headed on out into a dark damp Paris. 

Walking through the streets, his feet splashing indiscriminately in puddles, he considered his options; his halls, a metro station (albeit closed, but some of them had benches), or Bahorel’s place which was just across the river from here.

He really hoped Bahorel was in and not at Feuilly’s. He also hoped Bahorel wouldn’t punch him for knocking at his door at stupid o’clock in the morning. 

What he wasn’t prepared for was the wide-eyed look of complete shock when Bahorel opened the door, or the bone-crushing hug he was pulled into. It was definitely preferable to being punched, though; Grantaire supposed he cut a pretty pathetic figure having just walked half way across Paris in the pouring rain without a coat in clothes he’d been wearing for three days straight.

“Where the hell have you been, you’ve had us worried sick,” Bahorel growled, pulling back to seize Grantaire by the shoulders. The genuine concern was touching, and now Grantaire really did feel like the biggest arsehole. Apologies sounded dry and insincere on his tongue, but he gave them anyway, not able to meet Bahorel’s eyes. He was suddenly bone tired and he could feel the start of a horrible headache forming in his temples.

Bahorel looked at the dead phone in Grantaire’s hand with an unimpressed expression before rolling his eyes and pulling Grantaire into the apartment.

“I just need someplace to crash tonight. I’m not sure I’m ready to go back home just yet. I need a break, you know? It’s all just a bit much right now,” Grantaire murmured, keeping his voice low as he followed Bahorel through the hallway. Bahorel cleared his throat.

“Yeah, about that…”

It took Grantaire a moment to realise that Bahorel’s living room was literally full of people who were all peering up at him blearily. Jehan was the first to pounce, leaping off the sofa where he had been snuggled up with Feuilly, and managing to bounce across the room without hitting a single person. He didn’t seem to mind that Grantaire was soaking wet, pressing two enthusiastic kisses to his cheeks before scolding him for his disappearing act.

He was so genuinely pleased to see Laigle who almost strangled him with the force of his hug. Then Laigle went and made it worse by apologising and Grantaire felt a lump form in his throat because why on earth was Laigle apologising to him? He should be apologising to them for worrying them all to death; and they were all clearly worried which Grantaire didn’t understand at all. Feuilly was just behind Laigle, trying to communicate with Grantaire through a series of meaningful expressions before settling on giving him a friendly punch that was hard enough to give him a dead arm. Grantaire supposed he deserved that. 

What he definitely didn’t deserve was Joly who, wincing with every step, struggled over to him to offer his hand. He’d been so angry with Joly, too angry to accept his apologies, but now Grantaire just felt overwhelmed. He batted Joly’s hand away before hugging his friend tight. Whatever was going on with them, whatever the reason that all this had happened, Grantaire knew he had been foolish for running away from his friends.

The hugs from Courfeyrac and Combeferre really did come as surprise. Given that Enjolras had certainly been convinced of Grantaire’s complete failure as a human being when last they saw each other, he had felt certain that there would at least be some awkwardness or quiet on their side in solidarity with their best friend.

Though perhaps things were not all as they appeared, judging by the fact that Enjolras was right there, head held high, looking determined, or as determined as anyone could look in bare feet. Grantaire wasn’t sure why he noticed that first but found he had trouble looking away. 

“Grantaire, may I have a word?” Enjolras spoke quietly in a tone that lacked his usual confidence, as though he fully expected Grantaire to refuse. But Grantaire could never refuse Enjolras anything and so he nodded mutely, before following him from the room, leaving their friends to whatever gossip took their fancy.

Enjolras led them blindly through the first door they came across, supposing it to be a bedroom or a cupboard; anywhere that would afford them a bit of privacy. To Grantaire’s slight consternation it proved to be the bathroom but Enjolras didn’t seem to mind. He was staring at Grantaire with that intense gaze and Grantaire almost couldn’t bear it.

Enjolras took a deep breath. He was not a coward. He was many things; argumentative, angry, passionate, stubborn; he was entirely mortified at the way he had treated the man that stood before him. The scars of their last encounter stood in plain sight; the way Grantaire held himself, as though prepared for another onslaught, the fact that he didn’t quite seem to be able to meet Enjolras’s gaze, even though it was he, not Grantaire, who should be too embarrassed to look the man in the eye.

The fact was that, even if everything he had said had been true – even if Grantaire had run off to Joly the second Enjolras’s back was turned and had blabbed to all their friends about the night’s events – Grantaire still wouldn’t have deserved everything that Enjolras had spat at him, and he told Grantaire so. He wanted Grantaire to understand the he was extremely sorry for losing his temper as he knew how terrible he could be. He needed Grantaire to understand that he knew the truth of what had happened, that he had jumped to the wrong conclusion and taken it out on R before checking his facts. Of course Joly had explained that the very opposite had happened, and Enjolras was extremely sorry.

Pausing for breath, Enjolras watched Grantaire for any reaction to what he was saying. He didn’t expect much forgiveness but it was an ease on his conscience to do the right thing. 

Grantaire, for his part, was feeling quite light-headed. He’d had a long time to consider how the future might pan out and most of the scenarios had involved Enjolras hating him for the rest of time. It had honestly never occurred to him that Enjolras might apologise – and with such sincerity and regret.

The thing was, Grantaire got it, he really did. He understood why Enjolras had been so upset. He knew how sensitive the guy was about his orientation and how having to justify your very existence on a daily basis was exhausting. Often when people snapped and exploded they weren’t actually yelling at the person in front of them, they were tearing down everyone who had questioned, passed comment, or erased them every day for however many years until they just couldn’t take it anymore. 

And he knew it was ridiculous but he remembered all too clearly how the one thing his brain at focussed on during the whole horrible encounter had been how stunningly beautiful Enjolras had been; the beauty of his blazing wrath was something Grantaire was determined to translate into paint at some point and that was just a nail in the coffin of his sanity, as far as Grantaire was concerned.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras looked at him uncertainly. Now that he’d said his piece, his shoulders had slumped a little and Grantaire really looked at him. He saw the fatigue, the circles round his eyes, the lack of luminescence to his skin. Grantaire really wanted to hug him.

“Friends?” Grantaire offered, holding out his hand. Enjolras seemed to consider the outstretched palm for a moment before looking up to meet Grantaire’s eyes, a dazzling smile on his face, before reaching out in acceptance.

Much later, Grantaire would describe the feeling of what happened next as the sensation of being struck by lightning. When Enjolras took his hand it was like the universe shifting around them, their hands almost burning as white-hot electricity shot up his arm. It sent him to his knees, lying at Enjolras’s feet, gasping for breath at the most terrible pain in his chest as everything seemed to explode at once.

For Enjolras, it felt as though reality shattered around him. He staggered back against the wall as a strong voice filled his mind, an achingly beautiful voice that he would know anywhere.

“Vive la république! J'en suis.”

+

In the living room, an awkward silence had briefly descended as Grantaire and Enjolras made their bid for a moment of privacy, but then Feuilly had stretched and rolled his shoulder before offering to make everyone a drink. With Grantaire back, people would want to pick the guy’s brain, find out what he’d been up to the past few days so there was little chance of anyone going back to sleep any time soon. 

Jehan had gone in search of any more sheets or pillows as there were now nine people crowded into Bahorel’s apartment and space was running a little thin on the ground. Joly and Bossuet were in conversation with Courfeyrac, Joly collapsing back on his bean bag and stretching his leg out before Bossuet set to massaging the soft tissue around his knee. Courfeyrac was nodding vigorously at something Joly said, and Combeferre was just about to go over to join them when he felt a prickle go up the back of his neck.

He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt the need to go check on Enjolras and Grantaire. They had only been gone a few minutes and there hadn’t been any shouting or doors being thrown open in anger. All the same, something in Combeferre’s gut didn’t sit right and while he wasn’t necessarily superstitious about these things, it couldn’t hurt to just go check. 

He knew they weren’t in the bedroom because Prouvaire was in there raiding the cupboards, so logically they must have gone into the bathroom. The suspiciously quiet bathroom.

Combeferre paused outside the door, feeling slightly ridiculous. They were probably fine; they were probably talking like sensible human beings. Enjolras could be extremely sensible once in the initial explosion that seemed to cloud his judgement was over and done with, and there was absolutely no reason to think that he and R were doing anything other than talking quietly and sorting themselves out.

Except, really, he should be able to hear something. After all, he could hear the low rumble of Bahorel and Feuilly talking in the kitchen down the hallway. If he could hear them, then he should definitely be able to hear the sound of voices through a closed door right in front of him.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre knocked gently on the door. He was vaguely aware in his periphery of Bahorel’s head peering round the kitchen door frame to look at him. Combeferre knocked again.

He stepped forward with the intention of trying the door, knowing that he was probably going to feel extremely foolish when he opened the door and either found the room empty, because Enjolras and Grantaire had actually stepped outside for their chat, or else discovered his best friend doing something else entirely more intimate, in which case Combeferre would just have to reverse extremely quickly and apologise later but at least his mind would be at rest.

But then he realised he _could_ hear something through the door. It was the sound of someone murmuring a very quiet mantra of “oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck”.

Combeferre almost broke the door down in his efforts to get inside. It wasn’t locked but turning the door handle took a frustratingly long time. 

They were kneeling on the floor, hands knotted together in a way that would look painful, except that both men had their eyes closed, foreheads resting together, and Enjolras was crying. Grantaire’s eyes were screwed up tight, and it had been his prayer that Combeferre had heard through the door, his whole body shuddering with every breath as he clung to Enjolras as though terrified of falling off the face of the planet.

As Combeferre took in the scene he was aware of a familiar sickly scent in the air and that told him all he needed to know. Combeferre’s own stomach dropped because it was happening – it was happening right now.

There was nothing to do but kneel down beside the two men on the bathroom floor. Combeferre reached out tentatively, unsure if his touch would be welcome. But when Enjolras didn’t jump or shy away from the hand placed upon his shoulder, Combeferre stretched his arms around the both of them, hugging them while resting his head on Enjolras’s shoulder and drawing comfort from the living warmth of his friends. 

“You’re ok. Both of you are ok. You’re alive and you are loved. So much. Both of you. We love you,” Combeferre found the words just pouring from him from who knew where, just wanting to offer comfort and reassurance to them. He wondered what it was they were feeling, what memories were filling their minds at that very moment; he wondered what it was that had finally broken through.

The others piled in behind him to join the scene on the floor; first Courfeyrac who draped himself at Enjolras’s back so that he might hug both his boyfriend and his best friend at the same time. Joly and Bossuet attached themselves to R, muttering their own words to their friend. Jehan wound himself between R, Combeferre and Joly, Feuilly just behind him, and then finally Bahorel, resting his head on Feuilly’s shoulder. Combeferre could feel his shaking breath in his bones. All of them stayed like that, overwhelmed and wrapped up in each other, just breathing and letting the blood flow through their arteries while conscious of their own existence and just content to be for a while.

“I don’t mean to break the moment, I really don’t,” Bahorel’s voice cut through the air, sounding truly regretful. “But I haven’t washed this floor in two years and my knees are killing me.”

Feuilly laughed first, a huff of air and shoulders that soon spread to the others.

“Shall we move this somewhere more comfortable?”

“My knees and back heartily agree with you,” joined in Joly, leaning back to stretch, Laigle instantly jumping forward to help his poor boyfriend up. Gradually the friends pulled back, smiling sheepishly, wiping at damp cheeks and seeking out friendly hands. Only Enjolras and Grantaire remained on the floor.

Grantaire’s eyes were still shut tight and his knuckles were white from his grip on Enjolras’s hands. Enjolras’s deep blue eyes were open, though; staring at the man before him with awe and tenderness. He extracted one of his hands gently, moving slowly to press it to Grantaire’s face, his thumb stroking lightly across the man’s cheek bone.

Taking comfort from the soothing touch, Grantaire leaned into it, eyes flickering open, red-rimmed with emotion.

“You didn’t mind… did you?” he murmured, voice cracked and broken, and Combeferre felt as though he was witness to something far too personal and private. He wanted to look away, to give them the respect and privacy that they deserved, but before he could Enjolras smiled, a radiant and devastating smile of complete peace and joy.

“Of course not,” he replied softly, before leaning forward to brush a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead; a benediction, an affirmation.

+

Enjolras was going to die.

He was proud to die. He had fought hard, he had done his best. Others would hear of their bravery and follow in their footsteps. One day France would be free. But he would not be there to see it.

He thought of his friends, his dear friends who had fought and died for France and for him. He would join them soon enough; Enjolras had accepted his end.

But then. Oh then! Rising from who knew where, his stride firm, was Grantaire. Enjolras had always hoped, had always wished… how could he do anything but smile at the radiance shining from this man transformed before him, shouting his rhetoric at the surprised soldiers and yet taking a moment to turn ever so gently, to proffer his hand and request Enjolras’s permission to die. 

Of course Enjolras had smiled.

+

The silence of that dawn had been unbearable. The chair and the table had been his uncomfortable bed fellows, and Grantaire – now awake – found himself surrounded by death. How cruel his existence that life saw fit to wake him from his slumber while the better men around him never would.

He was aware of a voice, two voices – one of which he would know anywhere – somewhere just in front of him out of sight. All at once Grantaire had understood everything; he had slept while his friends had fought and died. He had slept while his prophecy had come true; he would not be going to Enjolras’s funeral.

And so it was that he leapt to his feet, determined to do one thing right in his most miserable of existences. If Enjolras would allow, if that wonderful man whom he loved, venerated and adored, might see fit to look upon him and give him one final chance – a chance which he knew he didn’t really deserve – then maybe he could at least die satisfied, if not happy.

Enjolras’s smile had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, and to see it directed at him made death feel like nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was going to be the last chapter, but I've been persuaded to include one more.
> 
> Everything was building up to this point. Thank you to everyone for sticking with me through this - I'm truly overwhelmed by all your lovely comments, the kudos, the bookmarks, the subscriptions... you guys are amazing and thank you so much.
> 
> Also bouquets of roses and many bottles of wine to Claire and Sarah. These lovely people have let me traumatise them with this fic for months and I'm very grateful for their input.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well.
> 
> Dawn rises on 6th June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually embarrassed at how long this took me to finish, but finished it is.
> 
> There's nothing bad in this chapter, and no warnings for anything.

It was the middle of the night when Eponine shot up in bed, wrenched suddenly from sleep and gasping for air. She reached out to her side, searching for the bedside lamp on the table, and soon a warm, comforting glow filled the room. Everything was where it should be; a few trinkets and knick-knacks on the dressing table, the large chest of drawers, a stocking just visible where she’d been careless closing the top drawer.

Shit, but her heart was absolutely pounding, and it took a moment to calm her breathing. Beside her, Luc snored peacefully, unaware of her distress. Eponine tried to remember what it was that had woken her. Running her hand through her hair, she slipped out of bed, heading for the sliding door onto the balcony and some fresh air.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the night air cool and sharp. It made her want to pull on her boots and go for a walk. There was something peaceful and comforting about wondering the streets at night, although she’d been doing less of it since the move from Paris. The little Normandy village she had somehow found herself in was about as far away from the wide avenues, parks and squares of that sprawling metropolis as you could get. Which, of course, had been entirely the point.

If you’d told her when she was eighteen that by twenty-one she’d own a house – her own house – on the coast, she’d have laughed. It could have been so very different, what with her parents finally fucking off, and bills to pay, and Gavroche starting to take an unhealthy interest in certain illegal extra-curricular activities. But that had all changed just before she turned nineteen, and at first she’d thought it was a scam. It had to be a scam. 

She worked a forty-five hour week between two jobs; when the man in a suit turned up, clutching a briefcase, she wondered what the fuck her good-for-nothing parents had done now. And when it wasn’t about her parents, or her brother, she thought it might be the tax office. And she’d never even heard of Great Aunt Az, who had owned one of those old houses in the Deep South of America, though she supposed her mother must have come from somewhere.

The terms of the will were clear; Gavroche’s legacy would be held in trust until his eighteenth birthday, meanwhile Eponine would have an annuity, to be overseen by Great Aunt Az’s lawyers as her executors, until she attained twenty-five and then the rest of her inheritance would be released.

So she did the only sensible thing; to prevent her parents from making an unwelcome reappearance, she upped sticks and moved. They could smell money like sharks scenting blood, and Eponine wanted a chance, she wanted Gav to have a chance. Now he was settled, enrolled in a decent school and doing really well. And she was, well… happy.

Getting out of Paris had been the best decision she’d ever made. Most fairy stories saw protagonists heading to the city to make their fortune. Eponine just wanted a quiet life, and so that’s what she had built for herself. She spent her days working in a little café because she enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere and the way the locals wished her a good morning. The tourists who passed through were usually pleasant, all of them fresh and enthusiastic about their holidays, speaking terrible franglais but at least they were trying, asking for menu recommendations and directions to local places of interest.

And then there was Luc. 

He worked at the boat house, helping with the boats that were rented out to tourists, and at first Eponine had thought he was a bit of an arse, coming into the café and leaning on the counter, grinning and tossing his hair which was still slightly damp from where he’d recently been lugging boats out of the water and up the beach. He was tall, dark skinned, and always ordered the same thing. Eponine’s boss, a fifty-something matriarch with two dead husbands and six cats, thought he was lovely and liked to employ him to wash the windows and paint the shutters. Eponine kept her distance because there was no way anyone was that nice without having a few skeletons in their cupboard.

But when he gave her car a jump-start on the first cold day of autumn, with absolutely no expectation of anything in return – no request for a drink, or a promise of a date – just a cheerful smile and a shout of “good luck” as he closed the bonnet, and the guy went merrily on his way, Eponine seriously wondered whether the guy was actually real because that never happened. Men always wanted something for doing someone a favour. 

And still he came into the café for coffee, smiling and throwing his change into tip jar, leaving with a wink, but never actually being a creep or a dick about it, and actually he was rather sweet. 

So she asked him on a date.

They didn’t say “Je t’aime” they said “bonne chance”, and Luc was teaching her how to swim. Gavroche liked him too, which was a massive plus. Despite the damp start to June, it was shaping up to be a beautiful summer. Last night they’d stayed up playing card games and drinking wine and it had been nice. Just nice. And she’d asked him to stay over. 

Eponine tried to remember what it was she’d been dreaming about. She clenched and unclenched her hand which she must have been sleeping on because it ached and burned. She rubbed absently at her side, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker of the dream that had woken her so violently.

“Hey,” Luc pushed back the sliding door, stepping out, concern written on his face. “Everything ok?”

“I think so,” she replied softly, turning to give him a hug, shivering slightly in the night air. “Bad dream.”

“Oh yeah?” he chuckled softly. “What about? Need me to fight any monsters under the bed?”

She shoved him playfully, called him a jerk, and he laughed. 

They went back inside, Luc taking up the sheet from where it was scrunched up in the middle of the bed and shaking it out.

It didn’t take long for Eponine to fall back asleep, Luc’s breath soft on the back of her neck. The shock of suddenly waking up long forgotten. It was just a dream and dreams couldn’t harm her. Whatever had woken her from the dream world was gone and forgotten, and Eponine slept peacefully in Luc’s arms.

+

There was still a light shining from second-floor window at the police station in the Place du Chatelet, just north of the Pont au Change, even though it had gone two o’clock in the morning. The window was slightly cracked to allow a fresh breeze. The stifling Paris heat was at last beginning to dissipate thanks to the rain, but the occupant of the desk three away from the door didn’t notice.

Javert sighed, hitting his delete button angrily before attempting to reconstruct his sentence. He paused briefly, rifling through one of the stacks of papers – police reports, orders, leads and other documents – before he found the one he was looking for in particular. He ran his fingers over the highlighted text, before tapping once more at the keyboard. He was meticulous in his sources, anxious for everything to be accurate. 

“Still here, Javert?” One of the night sergeants from the front desk suddenly appeared in the doorway clutching a mug. Javert didn’t even glance up, grunting a response.

His colleagues thought him an odd fellow, married to his job, and right at that moment he was even more unapproachable than usual. The next afternoon, Javert had been invited to give a presentation on prison reform to the committee. It was a matter particularly close to Javert’s heart. The French penal system was very much in need of urgent amendments, in his view, and tomorrow would be his big chance for his views to be heard, even if it was only in relation to Parisian jurisdiction. 

Javert’s ideal was to be human. His own start in life had been anything but idyllic, and he often saw himself and what he could so easily have become in some of the young offenders brought in. It was depressing to see the same faces as they fell into a cycle of reoffending. No one should be beyond reclamation, and while punishment was clearly a central part of the penal system, rehabilitation should be just as important, if they were ever to reduce the prison population from its current dizzying numbers.

After all, he thought ruefully, adding another line to his presentation, it would save the tax payer money in the long run.

He cast a despairing look over his desk. So much paper; sometimes he felt as though he were drowning, there was always something else, something more.

“You should go home,” the desk sergeant stood up from where he was leaning against the door frame. “You’ll come across better after a few hours’ sleep. And if I know you, that report is about as good as its going to get.”

Javert gave him a flat look, but he probably had a point. His head was pounding anyway; maybe a few hours of rest wouldn’t go amiss. 

As he made his way across the bridge towards his home, Javert paused in the middle to watch the river pass beneath him. Sometimes he had the strangest feeling when passing this spot, almost a moment of vertigo. Here in the shadow on Notre Dame, the city had never felt so old, the years echoing through the cobbles.

But the feeling always passed, and Javert carried on home to his bed, otherwise untroubled.

+

Grantaire splashed cold water over his face before peering up into the bathroom mirror. The mint of Prouvaire’s mouthwash was still sharp on his tongue, adding an edge of corporeality to an otherwise unbelievable night. His mind was chaotic, too full, and while the nausea had passed, overwhelming fatigue remained. 

It had been a truly awful moment, letting go of Enjolras’s hand. It felt like letting go of everything else, leaving Grantaire adrift and alone in the world, but it was necessary for more practical purposes. He was still shaky on his feet and Enjolras had been practically translucent. Combeferre, who was a damn saint and seemed to know just what to do and say in every situation, placed a gentle hand on both of their shoulders and suggested they might want to take five minutes to clean up. Enjolras had followed his best friend out of the bathroom, leaving Grantaire to have his own private meltdown over the basin.

“Hey,” a warm voice broke through his thoughts, and an even warmer hand pressed over his own, contrasting against the cool ceramic sink. Grantaire exhaled.

“Hey,” he responded, smiling shyly up at Enjolras’s reflection in the mirror. For a moment neither of them moved, and then Enjolras coughed, almost apologetic for breaking the moment.

“Mind if I…?” he indicated the mouthwash, and R fell over himself to get out of Enjolras’s way, but then Enjolras caught his hand and there was that centred feeling again, as though nothing could ever be wrong in the world, and Grantaire was sure there was the most ridiculous look on his face.

And that was how they went back to their friends, hand in hand.

Grantaire didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at them and they all knew… fuck, they all _knew_. They had been waiting for him to remember. R flushed in horror, feeling sick to his stomach, thinking back on the last year and everything that had happened. Had they known the truth about him all that time?

And a whole bunch of things began to make sense, not least their friends’ odd behaviour when he and Enjolras had gotten together. Enjolras, as though reading his mind, squeezed his hand.

“Sit down,” Combeferre indicated the sofa where room had been made for them, “before you fall down.”

“So, uh,” Grantaire cleared his throat, looking round at everyone, using his spare hand to tug at his curls nervously. “You all remember too, huh?”

“For aaaages,” Courfeyrac grinned. “And I happen to know that Combeferre is itching to pick your brains.”

For that, Courf got a sharp elbow in the ribs from his boyfriend and a hurried “when it’s convenient, of course,” of assurance, and then it was as though everything was normal. R still had a splitting headache, and he didn’t think he’d be letting go of Enjolras any time soon, but he was sitting in Bahorel and Feuilly’s apartment like he had a done a hundred times before.

Sighing, he relaxed back against the sofa, and then promptly stopped breathing as Enjolras curled into him, resting his golden head on Grantaire’s chest. Enjolras made a sound of contentment and there was nothing else for Grantaire to do other than press a kiss to the top of his head. Jehan let out a dreamy sigh.

“So you see,” Combeferre coughed, sounding sheepish. “We’ve been waiting for you two to remember for some time. Usually it’s triggered by touch,” he coughed again, and surely that wasn’t a blush painting their dear guide’s cheeks! “We really weren’t trying to interfere.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you were, on reflection,” R said ruefully, grunting as Enjolras poked him.

“Oh shush! Don’t be ridiculous, Grantaire!” Enjolras mumbled sleepily into Grantaire’s jumper.

“Now, that’s more familiar,” R smiled, looping his fingers in Enjolras’s curls, ignoring the resulting grumble from the man in his arms. Of course Enjolras would feel that way – ever the idealist. But Grantaire remembered all too well the last time any of his friends had seen him. Which must mean…

“Grantaire,” Combeferre, interrupting Grantaire’s train of thought, had his Serious Business voice on, “even if it was any of our business – which it’s not, I might add – you must realise that all of us, including you, are rather different to our former selves.”

Well, that at least was true. To excuse the turn of phrase, but he was a hundred years away from where he had been before. 

Another wave of nausea overtook him as he met Joly’s eyes, because all his friends had died while he had slept; passed out drunk in that wine shop. Enjolras had been right.

+

Enjolras was feeling warm, comfortable and sleepy. He was surrounded by R’s soft scent and really wouldn’t mind leaving the inevitable chat until another day, but he could feel Grantaire tense beneath him, the hand that had been gently teasing his hair stilling suddenly. He moved, sitting up slightly so that he could look Grantaire in the eye.

He wished they were alone for this, that an entire room of people weren’t gawping at them right now because they couldn’t know, they wouldn’t understand. They hadn’t seen Grantaire rise up with the sun pouring through the window, seen him stand firm, without any sort of hesitation. The softness of his voice – and Grantaire had only ever spoken gently to him, even when Enjolras was yelling barbed words designed to hurt – and the comforting press of his hand. They didn’t _know_.

“Hey,” he murmured quietly, cupping Grantaire’s cheek and suddenly feeling raw. “We’ll muddle our way through. And our friends will help us. They’re obviously used to this. Oh!” and he turned to the rest of the room. “How long, exactly? When did you remember?”

Everyone spoke at once, dispelling the tension in the room. Bahorel stood, hand to his chest, proud of his status as the first. Combeferre rose to go grab his notebook, Feuilly following him and muttering something about a report. Enjolras couldn’t keep the grin off his face; if he knew Combeferre, there was likely to be a spreadsheet involved somewhere. Dear Combeferre! They would be lost without him.

Enjolras felt Grantaire start to relax once more as the others told their stories; how they had bumped in to one another by chance, how some friendships and relationships had been forged before memories had started to rise to the surface. They’d all been through it, and those experiences themselves had created a sort of camaraderie. Now, at last, they were complete.

“So, really you’re actually very important,” Bossuet piped up, gesturing in Grantaire’s direction. “You helped both Joly and I remember.” 

“And Combeferre nearly had kittens the night he found out you two had already met,” Bahorel roared with laughter, while Combeferre sniffed stoically. “He felt sure you’d both remember the moment you clapped eyes on each other.”

“Yes, well, I was working with rather limited information,” Ferre drew his mouth into a flat line. “And I’d only found out that afternoon that Grantaire was even part of all… this.”

Enjolras wanted to laugh. He felt giddy and elated, lost in this strange new reality in which he had found himself, simultaneously familiar and alien. But Grantaire had a blank and lost expression on his face, and so Enjolras made a decision. Leaning up, he pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, rough and stubbled, and R looked at him in surprise.

“I want to tell them,” Enjolras said simply. “Do you mind?”

+

Hours later, there was a comfortable quiet in Bahorel and Feuilly’s living room. They’d listened to Enjolras and Grantaire’s tale with open mouths, followed by more hugs and tears. Enjolras had grown quiet and solemn as he spoke about that day from his perspective, how he thought he had been the last, and had very nearly fallen to despair, and yet how proud he was of all his friends for everything they had tried to do. And then… right at the last, there had been Grantaire.

Grantaire had said nothing, content to let Enjolras speak, instead drawing patterns in the back on Enjolras’s hand with his fingers.

But gradually the conversation had dwindled as people inevitably began to succumb to sleep.

Jean Prouvaire unfolded himself from where he was squished comfortably between Bahorel and Feuilly. Light was creeping round the curtains and he was drawn to it inexorably. He brushed his fingers against the thin fabric, peering out into the empty street below. The rain had stopped and over in the east the sun was cresting the Paris skyline.

“Dawn,” he murmured, smiling softly. Turning back to the room he felt strangely liberated, watching the sun rise over his city with all his friends cuddled up together in blankets and duvets, clinging to each other as they faced the future together.

Epilogue

As soon as the cemetery gates at Pere Lachaise were unlocked, a middle-aged man slipped inside, clutching nine red roses.

He made his way through the city of the dead, through the winding paths to the graves of his ancestors. Near the wall, away from the more grandiose mausoleums, was a simple structure with the single word PONTMERCY engraved on the door. 

In a family tradition dating back over one hundred years, the man laid the nine red roses to rest at the door of the sepulchre, before quietly taking his leave and returning to the bustle of the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness - well there it is.
> 
> OK, so quite a few of you - quite rightly - were asking where Eponine and Javert were, and originally (as in, May 2015) I wasn't going to include them. But then I spent a long while thinking about Eponine and what I would wish for her if she had another chance. And if the boys were having another chance, then its only fair that she and Gavroche also get their chance.
> 
> At the end of the brick, Thenardier takes Azelma over to the New World to run a plantation, which just goes to prove there's no stopping some people. They're rotten to the core and keep coming back like japanese knott weed. So I think it's only fitting some of that money go to a decent cause.
> 
> And for anyone thinking that my Javert is out of character (which, let's be fair now, he isn't chasing valjean down or singing at small balls of gas burning millions of miles away) I spent a lot of time thinking about his suicide note. Javert's suicide notes is one of the saddest things I think I've ever read. He's reached his conclusion that he can't possibly live with the catch 22 situation he has somehow found himself in, and so has decided the only sensible thing to do is end his life. So what are his final words to this world? He writes about changes that could be made to the prison system to make it better. Little gripes and complaints about prisoners standing on cold stone floors and getting ill, which costs money for a doctor.
> 
> So of course, if he were to do it all again, I would hope that it would be with the same dogged determination that we love him for, but with an edge of compassion. The line "Javert's ideal was to be human" is in contrast to the Hugo quote "Javert's ideal was not to be human... it was to be irreproachable". I hope you forgive me for writing one of my favourite characters in the brick a happier ending for himself in the 21st century.
> 
> Finally the Pontmercy clan - and I bet there were many children and grandchildren, all loved dearly by Marius and Cosette, and the stories were passed down from generation to generation. Courfeyrac will be sad, but Marius lived the best life he could. I chose Pere Lachaise as their final resting place, as Valjean is there in an anonymous grave, and one would imagine Cosette would like to be near her Papa.
> 
> Finally, I ended this fic on the dawn of 6th June because it suited me to. However, feel free to imagine Bossuet drawing the short straw to pop out and get some coffee because Bahorel & Feuilly have run out. And standing in front of him in the queue is a very familiar young lady, with dainty feet and intelligent eyes... and oh dear.
> 
> He ends up taking Musichetta back to the apartment apologising all the way for pouring coffee down her, and her telling him not to worry, she just didn't recognise him with all his hair... :)
> 
> Thank you for staying with me on this - for all the lovely comments and things. Huge bouquets of roses to Sarah and Claire (and chocolate and blankets and kittens) for putting up with me.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the brick.
> 
> This fic was quite a lot of fun to put together. Please bear with me - there will be exR I promise!
> 
> So, some notes;
> 
> If you haven't already worked it out, they're remembering in the order that they died.  
> Bahorel was killed first - his memories are triggered by a quote about him from the brick.  
> Similarly Jehan's birth marks are the wounds left behind by the firing squad. You should look up the Saptarishi constellation - it's quite something.
> 
> Laigle, Joly and R - these three hellions are my absolute favourites. Laigle did, indeed, have a hole in the elbow of his coat, in 1832 - and it is that conversation that prompts his memories. Similarly, all three of them were in the Corinth eating cheese and drinking wine instead of attending Lamarque's funeral (I adore what Joly had to say about it - that he agreed to go through fire, but nothing was said about water)
> 
> Thank you to Sarah for being my beta :)


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